


Call to the Bullpen

by DarcyDelaney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, Everyone swears a lot, F/M, Head Injury, Hospitals, M/M, References to Homophobia, deancaspinefest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9802574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyDelaney/pseuds/DarcyDelaney
Summary: Pitchers and catchers have one of the closest relationships in baseball. They’ve got to understand and play off each other’s personalities, quirks, and habits to get through good times and bad, and if Cas Novak, Wildwood University’s newest catcher, wants to take that relationship with pitcher Dean Winchester off the field and make it personal, that’s no one’s business but his own…and Dean’s. He should probably let Dean know, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dean/Cas Pinefest! Lovely art was done by the equally lovely Stopwatch, who was also incredibly patient with my inability to get things done in a timely manner. Check out her [masterpost](http://muninnhuginn.tumblr.com/post/157371148534/art-for-call-to-the-bullpen-by-darcydelaney-as) and leave her all the love! Double thanks to the wonderful [Athenae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vicnikiforovs), who helped me figure out how many baseball puns is too many to put in a summary <3 Hope you all enjoy!

The welcome packet had been sitting on Cas’ bed for hours before he finally gathers the courage to look at it.

It’s a typical college acceptance package, the sturdy folder plastered with photos of kids caught in forced laughter, faculty members pretending to teach, a soccer player in mid-kick, a look of intense determination and focus on her face. Cas opens the folder and pulls out the first piece of paper tucked inside.

_Dear Castiel,_

_Congratulations! On behalf of the admissions team at Wildwood University, I am delighted to inform you of your acceptance into the Biochemistry program and welcome you to the Class of 2018._

The rest of the letter waxes poetic about how he’s about to become a part of Wildwood’s distinct undergraduate class, receive a top-notch education, and that they can’t wait to see how he’ll contribute to the community as a transfer student. Cas rolls his eyes at that and scans the rest of the letter until he gets to the bottom, where he sees a hastily scrawled note written next to the president’s stamped signature.

_Looking forward to meeting you, Novak! -Coach Shurley_

That brings a small half-smile to Cas’ lips; at least the baseball coach seemed approachable enough.

Cas spends a few more minutes looking through the items in the folder: a financial aid form, housing papers, a list of important dates and deadlines, when he hears a soft knock on his door.

“Come in,” he calls awkwardly, and looks up to see his mother poking her head hesitantly into his room.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says, taking a few steps forward before closing the door behind her. “How are--oh, is that from Wildwood?”

Cas nods and scoots over, making room for his mother on the bed. She picks up the folder and starts flipping through the papers and packets herself. “Why do I have to go to a place that sounds like an elegant boarding school in the Berkshires?” he asks, and his mother stiffens at that.

“Wildwood offered you a _lot_ , Castiel,” she says, “more than any other school you applied to.” She reads the acceptance letter as if it’s the first time she’s seeing the words, even though they’d emailed him a copy a few weeks before the mailed version arrived. “This will be good for you,” she continues, leaning over and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “A fresh start.”

Cas wants to laugh at that, but knows that his mother wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, he just nods and reaches for the acceptance letter again. “The baseball coach seems nice.”

His mother’s eyes brighten at that. “He _does_ , doesn’t he? And I’m sure he’ll have better control over his players than Coach Sullivan did.” Her face darkens at the mention of Cas’ baseball coach at his old school, and Cas swallows around the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat.

He knows it’s impossible, but if he never had to think of his freshman year of college--and all the subsequent breakdowns, medication, and therapy sessions to go with it--again, it’d be too soon.

His mother presses a kiss to the top of his head before getting to her feet. “We’ll go shopping this weekend, find some new things for your dorm,” she says.

Cas nods and gives her a quick, forced smile that looks just genuine enough to get her out of the room. Once he hears the door click shut behind her, Cas allows all the tension to flood out of his body and he flops down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Second time’s the charm,” he mutters.

* * *

 

Despite her pestering, Cas had insisted that he didn’t need his mother to accompany him to move-in day, but as he pulls up in front of Miranda Hall, a tall, looming building in the middle of campus, Cas can’t help but wonder if he’d made a mistake by not letting her come.

It had taken him three different tries to find his way to Miranda, and now that he’s finally here, he just wants to go home. The campus is abuzz with overeager freshmen and their parents unloading their cars, and Cas tightens his grip on his steering wheel.

 _You can do this,_ he thinks to himself. _You’ve_ done _this. Now you just need to finish it._

He closes his eyes and pops the trunk before climbing out of his car, and is about to start unloading his bedding when he hears footsteps approach from behind. Before he can turn around, an over-enthusiastic voice greets him.

“ _Hiiiiiiiii_!” a girl in white shorts and a forest green T-shirt emblazoned with a white W says excitedly as she wraps him into a hug that takes Cas completely off-guard. He stiffens in her embrace, praying that she’ll let him go soon; when she finally does, he notices that three more girls and two guys are swarming his car, hoisting his laundry baskets over their shoulders and loading his snacks and books onto a cart.

RAs.

“Welcome to Wildwood!” she says, beaming as she takes a step back. “We’re so excited you’re here!”

“Clearly,” Cas murmurs, not loud enough for her to hear him. He stumbles forward as someone else slaps him between the shoulderblades, and looks over his shoulder to see one of the guys hoisting his bag with his catcher’s gear over one shoulder.

“What’s your room number, dude?”

Cas sucks in a deep breath through his nose. “318.”

The guy takes a few seconds to mentally locate Cas’ room in his head, then leads the group--Cas right in the middle of them--into Miranda Hall. Cas casts one last glance to his car, which now, with almost all its doors thrown open, as well as the trunk, looks like it’s been picked apart by vultures, before letting himself be guided inside.

Even though Cas usually hates when other people touch his belongings without permission, he has to admit that there’s no way he could’ve gotten everything up to his room as quickly and smoothly as the five RAs did. They drop everything off on the vacant side of room 318, make sure he’s got his ID card and room key, wish him luck, then are gone almost as fast as they appeared.

 

Once Cas moves his car, avoids the attempts of a different group of RAs to get him to attend a freshman orientation activity, and collapses onto his unmade bed, he finally takes a look around. Room 318 is unremarkable as far as dorm rooms go--bed, desk, chair, and dresser, but what really catches Cas’ attention is his roommate’s side.

There are economy-sized bags of candy lining the desk, each one torn open ungracefully, and posters for every single one of Wildwood’s sketch comedy groups taped on the wall above it. The book that’s been left tented on the bed-- _Live from New York_ \--is worn and full of colorful placeholders.

Each one of the posters taped on his roommate’s walls are tour posters for comedians, and Cas’ stomach clenches uncomfortably as he begins to wonder if he and his roommate will have _anything_ in common.

A few names are familiar--Louis C.K., Aziz Ansari, Dave Chappelle--but Cas finds himself doing a double-take at Hannibal Buress. Hannibal. Like the cannibal. _Please, please let him not have some weird cannibal/comedian obsession_ . He shakes his head and covers his face with a pillow, groaning softly into the fabric. He _would_ be stuck with someone with a serial killer fascination.

Cas stays that way for a few moments before he feels his phone start buzzing in his pocket. He digs into his pocket and pulls it out, only removing the pillow to glance at the screen.

_Good luck, sweetie! Have a wonderful first day xoxoxoxo_

Cas closes his eyes and lets his hand holding the phone drop onto his mattress. He should send her a reply, let her know that he’d arrived safely and found his dorm without incident, but he suddenly feels heavy, like he can’t bring himself to do much of anything right now.

He stays that way for a few moments, trying to muster up the strength to force himself out of bed. He’s got practice in half an hour-- _cutting it close, Novak_ \--and he can’t afford to fuck up his first impression by missing it, no matter how understanding his new coach might have seemed over the phone.

Cas rolls over onto his back with a groan, then gets to his feet and starts digging around through a suitcase for some shorts and a T-shirt. By the time he’s changed and ready to go, there’s still no sign of his roommate. Cas hefts his bag over his shoulder; he’ll have to meet him later.

 

Wildwood’s campus is, well, _beautiful_. As Cas tries to figure out the best way to get to the field, he finds himself getting distracted by the perfectly manicured lawn on the Quad, the well-trimmed hedges and flower beds, the impeccable buildings dotting the property.

Although it’s currently milling with people, Cas is able to zero in on several different places where he could picture himself relaxing later, small nooks in the campus where he can hide away for a bit and do nothing but read, listen to music, or just people-watch. No matter how much he tries to tamp it down, no matter how many as-needed anti-anxiety meds he popped beforehand, Cas can still feel his anxiety creeping up his throat at the idea of meeting a horde of new people. He loves this game, though, and if continuing to play means he has to risk being ridiculed by fifteen new teammates, then so be it. Samwell had just been a fluke--a really fucking awful fluke, sure--but he got through it.

As he approaches the edge of the Quad and catches his first glimpse of the baseball diamond in the distance, he nods to himself. _You can do this, Cas. It’ll be fine._

Or at least, that’s what he hopes.

Most of the other players have already arrived and are in the outfield warming up, and Cas has the dugout to himself. He manages to find a dusty little corner that hasn’t been claimed by bags or buckets of balls, and lets his bag slide off his shoulder and onto the cement floor with a thud.

A quick peek through the chainlink fence tells him that the other catcher, a gangly-looking kid with big ears, is half-dressed in his gear, and Cas sighs. He’d been hoping to make a good first impression without his bulky catcher’s gear, but the last thing he wants is to be unprepared, so he digs through his dusty, cluttered bag before pulling out his shin guards and mitt and taking a few steps backward toward the bench. His cleats clack on the cement as he does so; he’s always liked that noise.

He plops down on the metal bench and extends one leg, then the other, hooking the straps into place. He pulls on his mitt and is about to get to his feet when a voice interrupts his thoughts.

“You the new catcher?”

Cas looks up and his jaw nearly drops at the goddamn adonis leaning against the fence in front of him. He’s got his arms folded across his chest, legs crossed at the ankles, looking at Cas curiously. There’s so much of him to take in, but the first thing Cas is drawn to are his eyes. Cas can’t tell what color they are from the shade provided by the brim of his cap--maybe green--but they look friendly and warm. He smiles at Cas, and the skin around his eyes crinkles with the motion.

“I, uh, yes,” Cas stammers. “I’m...yes.”

The guy flashes him another lopsided grin that makes Cas blush all the way from his toes to the tips of his ears. “Dean Winchester,” he says. “Third rotation.” He steps forward and sticks out his hand for Cas to shake, and Cas goes to reach for it with his catcher’s mitt.

“ _Shit_.” He quickly pulls it back and shakes the mitt off, letting it land on the dirt outside the dugout with a thunk before re-extending his free hand to Dean. Dean laughs and shakes it, his fingers warm and firm around Cas’ hand.

“One of those days, huh?” he says.

“I suppose,” Cas answers, pulling his cap as far down over his face as it’ll go.

“Yeah, I know that feeling.” He bends down and picks up Cas’ mitt, studying it in his hand. He glances at Cas and gives him one more grin before tossing it back to him. “Let’s catch.”

Oh, Christ.

Dean heads toward a free space and Cas follows him, trying to jog as smoothly as he can with the shin guards strapped to his legs. There’s no way not to move awkwardly in those things, though; he’s never been bothered by it before, but he’s also never been in the presence of Dean fucking Winchester before.

The pitcher takes pity on him and stops a few feet away, then walks backwards so they can start throwing. Cas watches Dean as he laughs at something one of their teammates says, and grits his teeth.

_They’re not laughing at you, they’re not laughing at you, they’re not laughing at you._

Dean waves and flashes Cas a quick smile before holding the ball up in the air. “You ready?” he calls. Cas holds up his mitt in response, and Dean leans back and tosses the ball Cas’ way.

 

Cas had been expecting himself to be a complete awkward trainwreck around Dean Winchester, but it’s actually the opposite. He’s surprised at how easily conversation comes, and the genuine interest that Dean seems to take in what he thought was a relatively unremarkable life.

“So you’re a scientist?” Dean asks, lobbing the ball lazily toward Cas.

“Sort of. My major is in biochemistry, so I’ll hopefully be doing something in the medical field after I graduate.”

Dean lets out a low whistle. “Let me be the first to say that I, as an illustration and animation major, feel particularly useless hearing that.”

Cas laughs. “Illustration is important, too.”

Dean scoffs. “Whatever you say, Bill Nye.” They toss the ball back and forth in silence a few more times before Dean poses another question. “And you’re a transfer?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

“Samwell,” Cas says.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Heard they’ve got a pretty great hockey team.”

Cas nods. “They do.”

“So why’d you leave?”

The taunting and regularly scheduled hazing sessions devoted just to him seems like too much to get into upon first meeting, so Cas just shrugs and says, “Financial aid.”

Dean purses his lips and considers this. “Understandable.” He tosses the ball up in the air, his eyes following it back down into his glove, then looks over at Cas. “Speaking from experience, this place ain’t bad with financial aid, so you should be all set.”

And then he fucking _winks_ , and Cas can feel his knees buckle underneath his shin guards. “I, uh, that’s good to know.”

A whistle pierces through the air from the dugout, saving Cas from any additional opportunities to embarrass himself. Dean jogs over to him and tosses the ball up in the air once more; Cas likes the way the sun highlights the green in his eyes, and the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.

“Ready for day one?” he asks.

Cas grins and nods, all while hoping that Dean thinks the reason he’s flushed is because of the sun. He holds his arm out in invitation, and says, “After you, Bob Ross.”

Dean takes a step back, his head tilted and lips quirking up in a bemused smile. He looks almost as confused as Cas feels at the quip, and wonders for a second if he overstepped his teasing bounds when Dean laughs, a rich, hearty sound that Cas immediately wants to hear more of.

“I like you, Cas,” he says, tossing the ball Cas’ way. Cas scoops it out of the air in his glove and when he looks up, Dean is jogging toward the dugout. As he trails behind, his heart swells when he hears Dean mutter, “Bob Ross” affectionately under his breath.

They head over to the dugout and gather with the rest of the team around Coach Shurley, a skinny guy with a scraggly beard and hopeful smile. He doesn't _look_ like an athlete, but he had seemed friendly over the phone, which is all Cas can really ask for.

“Calm down, guys, c’mon,” he says, waiting for the players to make themselves comfortable in the dugout. Some lean against the fence, others lounge on the bench, chewing sunflower seeds and spitting them at each other. “We've got a new recruit, don't want him thinking that all we do is fuck around, right?”

“Why lie to him?” one guy in a dark blue T-shirt asks, his deep southern drawl dripping slowly like maple syrup. He pops his bubble gum and taps the heels of his cleats against the cement dugout floor before looking lazily at Cas with a smirk. “He’ll figure it out soon enough.”

“Don’t scare ‘im away, Lafitte, c’mon,” Dean says, reaching over and shoving playfully at his teammate.

“‘M not scarin’ him, brother, I’m _warnin’_ him,” Lafitte says. “There’s a difference.”

“We’re not that bad,” Coach Shurley interjects before Dean or Lafitte can say anything else. He glances at Cas and spreads one arm wide, gesturing to Cas’ new teammates. “Gentlemen, meet our new catcher, Cas Novak. Cas Novak, meet the gentlemen.”

Cas lets his eyes wander over each member of the team, and for the first time in a while, he doesn’t feel scared. Sure, he’s met with some blank or bored-looking faces, but nobody avoids eye contact or glares. He’d gotten so used to that at Samwell that it’s almost unsettling without it, but he shakes his head quickly to clear the thoughts from his head before addressing his new teammates.

“Uh, hello,” he says awkwardly, waving. “I’m very excited to join your team.”

“You planning on takin’ Fitzy’s spot?” one of his new teammates asks, clapping another catcher on the back, who suddenly looks panic-stricken, as if this had never even occurred to him as a possibility before.

Cas’ eyes widen. “No,” he says quickly. “No, no, of course not. I--”

His teammate’s eyes sparkle with amusement, and he laughs. “I’m just fucking with you, dude.” He takes a step forward and smacks Cas on the side of his arm. “Victor Henriksen. Second base.”

Cas flashes him a small, relieved smile and tries to calm his rapidly increasing heart rate again.

“Jesus, Henriksen, you’re gonna give him a heart attack.” An arm slings itself across Cas’ shoulders, and he glances out of the corner of his eye to see Dean pressed right up against him.

“Novak or Fitzy?” Victor asks, leaning back against the chainlink fence.

“Both.” Dean catches Cas looking at him at that, and winks. Cas is quick to look away, taking a sudden interest in his cleats.

“I would’ve been fine!” the other catcher, Garth, insists. He’s a skinny dude, and Cas can’t help but wonder how he doesn’t get bowled over by pitches.

Another guy, sitting on the bench and chewing way too much gum, laughs. “Yeah, because you’ve got nerves of steel, Garth. Need I remind you about spring training last year?”

Garth’s posture changes immediately into that of a pouting teenager. “Oh, come _on_ ,” he says, “that was after my sixth drink!”

“Okay, okay!” Chuck snaps his fingers and waves his free arm to get the team’s attention. “The coach doesn’t need to know what you miscreants get up to in your free time.” He points out to the field and looks at them all expectantly. “Four laps, let’s go!”

* * *

 

The door to Cas’ room is propped open when he finally manages to lug all his gear back to his dorm, and he sighs. Introducing himself to so many people, having to keep track of sixteen new names and faces--not to mention focusing on one in particular--had exhausted him enough; he’d forgotten about having a new roommate to meet on top of it all.

Maybe if he sneaks in quietly, he won’t have to make any uncomfortable smalltalk.

“Hey, you Novak?” a voice calls out before Cas has even taken his first step inside.

“Yes?” he answers, his voice making the response sound like a question. He pokes his head into the room first like he’s a visitor. _Be assertive, Castiel_ , he tells himself, his inner voice sounding an awful lot like his old therapist. _You belong in this room just as much as he does._

His roommate is lying on his stomach on his bed, his laptop resting in front of him. He’s watching something (and judging by the yelling and gasps and shrieks coming from the speakers, Cas isn’t even sure he wants to know what it is), and pauses it before getting to his feet.

“Sorry I missed you earlier, dude,” he says, walking over and grabbing Cas’ hand in a firm shake. “I’m Gabe.” He flashes Cas a mischievous little grin and shoves his hair back out of his eyes.

“Nice to meet you.”

“So, I’ve got a jock for a roommate, huh?” he asks, jumping backwards back onto his bed and nodding toward Cas’ gear.

Cas hesitates. “I wouldn’t say I’m a _jock_ \--”

Gabe waves him off. “Dude, I can’t even throw a Frisbee; _anyone_ is a jock compared to me.” He grins widely again before resuming his show.

Cas spends a few moments unpacking his gear, tossing his dirty clothes into his hamper, before his curiosity over whatever Gabe’s watching finally gets the better of him. He tries to crane his neck to see better without looking too obvious.

It looks like some kind of talk show, but one that’s got zero budget, because its set is a haphazard mess. There’s a woman hula-hooping in the corner, and Cas’ eyes widen at the man perched above the stage in nothing but swimming trunks and a pair of goggles. The audience is crammed in close to the center of the stage, where three people, maybe the hosts, are sitting. Each of them is wearing an oversized silver blindfold, and people in costumes are waving things in their faces, apparently trying to scare them, if the guy who walks out with a fake snake and a sign that says, “React like this is a real snake” is any indication, and it’s working. Bunches of kale, teddy bears, plants, feather boas: each one elicits stronger, more panicked responses from the blindfolded people, and Gabe is cackling.

“What--” Cas clears his throat, “what is this?”

“ _The Chris Gethard Show_ ,” Gabe says, and at Cas’ blank look, he adds, “It’s a comedy show. With sketches and characters and weird shit like this.” He waves absently toward his laptop screen. “This episode’s about facing your fears.”

Cas nods uncertainly. “Oh.”

Gabe considers him for a second, then says, “You’re a weirdo. I bet you’d like this.”

It should be an insult. It should be something that would make Cas wants to head for the bathroom and talk himself down from throwing up, insisting on a new rooming assignment, or both. But something about the way Gabe says it, Cas can tell that being a “weirdo” is a good thing.

“Maybe I would.”

“C’mon,” Gabe says, repositioning himself so that he’s sitting with his back up against the wall, resting his laptop on his thighs. “I’ll restart the episode for you.”

“You don’t have to--”

Gabe holds a hand in front of Cas’ face. “You think I haven’t seen it three times before already? Trust me, dude. This shit’ll change your life.”


	2. Chapter 2

After a few days of getting acclimated to campus--and only getting lost twice, thank you very much--Cas decides that his new favorite spot is in the campus center, particularly in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the lounge.

Today he’s got a borrowed copy of Chris Gethard’s autobiography because, much to Cas’ surprise, Gabe had been right: the ridiculous, offbeat public access show  _ is  _ pretty great. He’s halfway through a chapter when an angry voice and subsequent pounding noise jerks his head up.

“God _ damn _ it, Winchester!”

He startles a little in his chair and peeks above the book’s pages to see Dean leaning casually against one of the campus center’s pool tables, lazily thumbing through some bills while another guy looks on.

Dean grins down at the money before glancing up at the guy, who Cas finally recognizes as Fergus Crowley from his modern nonfiction class. “Dunno what you want me to do, Crowls,” he says before pocketing the bills and cracking his knuckles.

“You bloody  _ cheated _ !”

Dean purses his lips. “Did I?” He grabs Crowley’s pool cue and holds it behind his back, lines up a shot, then taps one of Crowley’s balls neatly into a corner pocket. He pulls the cue back and leans it up against the table before grinning at Crowley, whose face has gotten redder with each passing second, his hands clenched at his sides. “Prove it.”

Crowley stares daggers at Dean, but doesn’t do anything else other than slam his open palm on the green felt of the table once more. “Fucking prick,” he mutters.

Dean’s face breaks into a crooked grin, and he salutes as Crowley stalks out of the campus center. “Pleasure doing business with ya,” he says in a terrible English accent that makes Cas snort.

Dean looks over to find the source of the noise and his eyes light up in recognition when he and Cas make eye contact. He leans the cue up against the pool table and heads for the sitting area, flopping down onto the couch across from Cas that’s clearly seen better days.

“Hey, Cas.”

“ _ Did _ you cheat?” Cas asks in greeting, tenting his book on the arm of his chair.

“Eh.” Dean tilts his hand from side to side noncommittally. “Depends on what your definition of ‘cheating’ is.” He pauses, then adds, “If it’s something along the lines of, ‘I pretended to suck at pool so he’d bet against me,’ then yeah, I guess I did.”

Cas looks at Dean for a few seconds, both unblinking, and while Cas is trying not to get overwhelmed with the greenness of Dean’s eyes, he suddenly notices that there’s the tiniest spark of nervousness in them, as if he’s afraid that Cas is upset with him. Dean opens his mouth to say something, but Cas cuts him off before he can begin. “I can’t stand Crowley.”

Relief floods Dean’s features and he laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Me neither, man,” he says. “Ever since freshman orientation.”

Cas grimaces. “I can imagine that would turn anybody off of him,” he says, before powering past his hesitation and adding, “Do you do this a lot?”

“What, pool?” When Cas nods, Dean continues with, “Sometimes. Not often enough that people catch on, though.” Dean shrugs. “Gotta pay for those books somehow,” he says, and Cas can tell he’s trying to play it off as a joke, but the traces of truth in his voice make him pursue it further.

“You...do this to pay for books?” Cas asks hesitantly. He knows their textbooks are expensive, but he’d always taken for granted the fact that his parents made sure his books and supplies were paid for before each semester began.

Dean shrugs one shoulder and casually waves off Cas’ question. “Scholarships only cover so much,” he says, “and it’s a fucking miracle any time the library actually  _ has  _ any book I need.”

“Dean, I’m sure if you contacted the financial aid office and explained your situa--”

Dean barks out a humorless laugh at that and shakes his head. “Been there, done that,” he says, swinging his legs up onto the couch and stretching out so that his head is resting against one end, his crossed ankles at the other. “I’ve been doing this for years. ‘M good at it, it’s reliable, might as well take advantage.”

Cas is silent for a few seconds, taking in everything Dean has just said. Has Dean been doing this since  _ before  _ he got to college? 

“Someone’s going to come after you for getting a one-up on them,” Cas says, and Dean laughs.

“Nobody’s tried yet,” he says, stretching his limbs even further over the couch.

“Crowley seemed pretty upset.”

“I’ll deal with it if that pompous dick decides to do something more than talk shit,” Dean says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. He rolls over onto his side and studies Cas. “You eaten yet?” 

Cas hasn’t, but even if he had, he knows that he wouldn’t have passed up a chance to spend some more time with Dean. He shakes his head, and Dean grins.

“Awesome. C’mon, there’s this great place a few minutes’ walk from here. Cheap as hell, with the best bacon cheeseburger I’ve ever had.”

* * *

 

It’s weird, Cas decides, to have someone you always look forward to seeing, someone who can make you smile just by thinking about them.

It’s weird, but he wouldn’t say he doesn’t like it.

“Do you have any pitches?” Cas asks as he and Dean warm up during practice. “Anything especially good, that you can use to fool batters, maybe during particularly close games--”

“That’ll make me the game-winning hero?” Dean asks with a smirk.

Cas can feel his lips quirk up in a grin at that, and even though he knows that  _ he’d  _ be the one to call the game-winning pitch, not Dean, he decides to humor him. “Exactly.”

“Nothin’ crazy, no knuckleballs or anything,” Dean says. “My little brother refuses to let me try those, he’s afraid I’ll fuck up my arm. But I’ve been workin’ on my slider over the summer, and it’s gotten pretty good.”

Cas raises his eyebrows before lowering down onto his haunches. “Let’s see it,” he says, holding his mitt out for Dean to aim at. Dean’s face takes on an air of concentration, and he brings the ball and his glove up over his face so that all Cas can see are his eyes, staring him down from over the top of his mitt. 

Cas is almost immediately captivated by the intensity in Dean’s eyes, the way their normal brightness storms over with determination, and for a second, he doesn’t register the fact that Dean’s straightened up and is now halfway through his windup. 

The ball lands in Cas’ mitt with a satisfying  _ thud _ , and Cas looks up at Dean approvingly; he hadn’t had to move his hand an inch. “Not bad,” he says, getting up from his crouch and tossing the ball in front of his face.

Dean grins proudly at him. “I didn’t think so, either. What d’you think; can we use it?”

“Novak!”

Cas glances over his shoulder and sees Chuck beckoning him over. He holds up a finger, throws the ball back to Dean, and jogs over, his shin guards clacking together.

“How’re you doing?” Chuck asks, draping an arm across Cas’ shoulders and gently turning him away from the rest of the team. “Adjusting okay? Nobody giving you a hard time?”

Cas takes care to make sure that his grin doesn’t waver as he unconsciously thinks back to his time at Samwell, and how he absolutely hadn’t been adjusting okay, and that almost  _ everybody _ had been giving him a hard time. Chuck is aware of the situation Cas came from, and has done well so far when it came to not being too overprotective or hovering. Something is different at Wildwood, and Cas is relieved to be telling the truth when he says, “Yes, I’m doing well.”

Chuck gives him a wide smile and squeezes his shoulder. “Glad to hear it. Now, question--and feel free to correct me--but it seems like you and Winchester work well together, have a good connection going on.”

Cas’ eyes widen. Has he been that obvious? If it’s this clear to Chuck, then does  _ Dean  _ know, too? Is there a rule against teammates dating one another, like not dating your co-workers? What if--

“I, uh, I guess--”

“Great! So, how would you feel about becoming his catcher once the season starts up?”

“His catcher?” Cas repeats dumbly.

“Yeah.” Chuck nods eagerly, then gestures over to where the rest of the team is warming up with each other. “Our catchers rotate out and can all work with each pitcher, but we also like to take advantage of any relationships that look particularly strong. They seem like an odd pairing, but Garth’s been catching Benny for two years, and they know each other’s mannerisms inside and out.”

“And you think Dean and I--”

“Sure do,” Chuck says, beaming, “but what I think is only part of it; what do  _ you  _ think? Could you two work well together, win us a game or two?”

Cas’ eyes immediately drop down onto the grass. He’d be lying if he said the idea of being Dean’s catcher didn’t make him profoundly nervous. Being someone’s catcher is a big deal--hell, it might be the most important relationship a baseball team  _ has _ . Pitchers and catchers usually have relationships off the field, too: they work out game plans, study the stats of future opponents, brush up on signs. Doing all of this with any pitcher would be nerve-wracking enough, but doing it with  _ Dean,  _ well, that’d be something else entirely. 

But Cas wants it. No matter how hard he might try to talk himself out of it, he knows he wants it.

“Yes,” Cas says finally, looking back up at Chuck. His coach’s eyes brighten, and he gives Cas a thumbs up.

“Perfect,” he says. “Awesome. Wanna go let Dean know your decision?”

Cas stops short at that and furrows his brows together. “Dean already knows you were going to ask me?”

Chuck nods. “I asked him yesterday, and he was all for it, no hesitation.” 

No hesitation. Dean had  _ no hesitations  _ about working with him. He smiles in spite of himself, and Chuck claps him on the shoulder. 

“Back to work, Novak.”

“Everything good?” Dean asks when Cas returns. He’s a terrible actor; Cas can see through his casual facade without even trying.

“It’s...interesting,” he says, watching Dean’s reaction carefully.

Dean tilts his head curiously. “Interesting, huh?”

“I just got asked to be the primary catcher for one of our pitchers.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? That’s cool. Which one?”

Cas studies him for a few seconds, trying to look past the casual demeanor Dean’s putting out. “How long are you planning on pretending to not know anything about this?” 

“As long as you are,” Dean says with a smirk. He steps forward and pulls Cas into a strong, one-armed hug, clapping him on the back. At first, Cas is so surprised by the gesture that he doesn’t do anything but stand there, and he just barely has time to wrap an arm around Dean in response before the pitcher breaks contact.

“Never had my very own catcher before,” Dean says with a wink, and Cas nearly melts into a puddle on the floor like the girl in that movie they watched in French class last week.

“I can't say I've had my own pitcher, either.”

Dean chuckles, and in a matter of seconds, he leans over and loops his arm around Cas’ shoulders and holds his hands up, fingers spread wide like a director describing what he pictures a scene will look like. “Bill Nye and Bob Ross,” he says, “taking the field by storm.”

With Dean’s arm around him, Cas can’t help but think of all the times he’s seen Dean interact with their teammates through touch. Leaning on them, jokingly shoving them around--it happens often enough that Cas began to wonder whether Dean’s affections toward him were anything special, or if he just did them with everyone.

Cas has never seen him  _ hug  _ anyone, or do what he’s doing now.

He’ll take it as a good sign.

* * *

 

The rest of the semester passes by in a blur of classes, final projects, indoor and outdoor practices, and early morning weight sessions, until Cas is watching Gabe pack up and prepare to head home for winter break. Cas’ suitcases and backpack are resting against his bed, ready to go. 

“Anything good going on over break, Novak?” Gabe asks him, shoving all his weight onto a pile of clothes to get them to fit into an already-packed suitcase. 

Cas shrugs. He hates this question; whenever it’s asked, it makes him realize how little he actually does in his free time besides sleeping and judging chefs’ decisions on reality cooking shows. “We’ll see. Lots of family things, I’m sure.”

Gabe barks out a laugh. “I hear ya there.”

“What about you?”

“Open mics,” he says simply. “ _ All  _ the open mics.” He zips up his bag and glances up at Cas. “You ready?”

“I’ve been ready for the past half hour.”

Gabe forces out a laugh and flips Cas off. “How about we leave the jokes to me, huh?”

Cas smirks as he shoulders his backpack and grabs his suitcases. He waits for Gabe to drag his bags out of the room before taking one last glance inside, flicking off the light, and locking the door behind them.

And with that, winter break has officially started.

Cas and Gabe walk to the parking lot together, and Gabe gives him a quick salute before ducking into his car. Cas is almost to his own car when his phone vibrates in his hand; he looks down to see a new text from Dean.

_ have a good break dude! _

Cas grins down at his phone, letting his fingers hover over the screen for a few seconds before typing out a quick reply. 

_ You, too, Dean. Don’t cheat anyone at pool, please. _

For a split second, Cas wonders if he should’ve added a smiley face, or an emoji with its tongue sticking out to show that he’s joking, but before he can dwell on it too much, Dean’s answered again.

_ can’t make any promises ;)  _

 

When Cas arrives home and walks into the house still riding his emotional high, a blitzed-out smile on his face, his mom thinks it’s because he’s doing well in his classes and making friends.

While both of those things are true, Cas doesn’t bother to let her know specifics about just how good it’s gotten. He decides to keep that to himself.

* * *

 

Cas makes it through an hour of smalltalk with aunts, uncles, and more cousins than he can keep up with at his Aunt Naomi’s before retreating into the bathroom for a few minutes of mental recharging. His aunt has a strict no-phone policy during family get-togethers, so his first actions are to take a seat on the toilet--making sure that the lid is down, he’s made that mistake before--and pull out his phone. 

A few new texts from Gabe, mostly drunken selfies and a picture of his dog in a Santa outfit, some emails, and a Facebook notification. Cas doesn’t use Facebook that often, and most of his notifications come from people requesting that he help them out with Candy Crush or Sugar Crush or Whatever-the-Fuck Crush, so he almost ignores the small red balloon.

_ Dean Winchester has sent you a friend request. _

It’s a good thing Cas is sitting down.

He can’t accept the request fast enough, and immediately clicks on Dean’s profile. He's about to start scrolling, maybe browse through some of his photos, when a loud banging on the door jerks him out of his thoughts.

“Anyone in there?” his uncle Zeke calls, his voice booming. The door handle jiggles, and Cas rolls his eyes before shoving his phone back in his pocket. 

“Just a second,” he says, flushing the toilet and pretending to wash his hands, no choice but to save his Facebook creeping for after the party.

* * *

 

The first thing Cas notices is that Dean doesn’t have his relationship status listed. He’s got a brother, Sam, but no other family. His profile itself is pretty bare-bones: Dean doesn’t seem to post much, letting his friends tag him in things--recipes, memes, stupid Vine compilations (apparently Dean is  _ very  _ upset that Vine is being closed down, because there’s a point where his timeline is nothing but people sharing Vines with him), a few different art events around Wildwood--and comment on whatever they've decided reminds them of him. 

He only has a handful of profile photos: one of him with his brother, a group shot of last year’s baseball team, and one, Cas’ favorite, that he clearly hadn’t been aware had been taken. He’s working on a drawing in the photo, lips pursed in concentration just like when he’s pitching, and Cas loves it. His passion for whatever project he’s working on is clear in the gentle way he’s holding his pencil, his sketchbook tilted at an odd angle to get something just right. 

Cas tries to push past the hollowness in his gut at his desire to be something, some _ one  _ Dean cares about. He knows they’re friends, sure, but he wants to be the reason Dean makes his relationship status public. He wants to brag about being with the most gorgeous, funny, warm-hearted person he’s ever met.

He just doesn’t know how to convince Dean of the same.

* * *

 

A few days after they return from break, Cas sees Dean lying across a bench near the middle of campus, holding a book above his face. It doesn’t strike Cas as the most comfortable reading position, but the way Dean’s acting, he might as well be sprawled out on the most luxurious bed in the world. He’s got a few minutes before his next class, so he quickly changes direction to say hi.

Before he can get there, though, a slim redhead he recognizes from his Humanities class approaches Dean from the other side of campus. Her walk is tall and confident, her hair shining in the afternoon sun, and she calls out, “Dean!”

Dean turns his head toward her voice and grins. “Hey, girly,” he says, sitting up and setting his book to the side before flashing her a full-on smile. She sits down on his lap and he does nothing but snake his arms around her waist as she leans forward, gripping his chin gently and tilting his head up, planting a kiss on his lips. 

Cas stops short, and suddenly feels sick. That wasn’t a greeting, hi-how-are you kiss; that was an I-have-a-heart-emoji-next-to-your-name-in-my-phone-and-have-seen-you-naked kiss. 

He should’ve known. He should’ve fucking known.

Biochem is suddenly the least of his worries, and he does a complete 180 and is about to head back to his dorm when he hears Dean’s voice calling him. “Hey, Cas!”

Cas pauses before turning around. Dean is still sitting there with the girl--Anna, her name is Anna--on his lap, and he’s waving him over to them. Cas takes a deep breath and plasters a smile on his face before walking over.

“What’s up, man,” Dean says, grinning widely at Cas. “How was your break?”

“Good,” he says, nodding at Dean, then Anna, who smiles at him, squinting slightly against the sun. “Heading to biochem now.”

Dean nods. “No place for a Bob Ross, that’s for sure,” he says, winking at Cas, and Cas hopes that the flush in his cheeks can be attributed to the sun. “Hey, have you guys met?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing, “Anna, this is Cas, the new catcher I was telling you about. Cas, this is Anna, my girlfriend.”

The fact that Dean’s talked about him to other people lessens the sting of him saying “girlfriend” just a little, but he’s still not prepared for the way his stomach clenches up at Dean’s words. He forces another smile and says, “We have Humanities together this semester.”  

“That’s right!” Anna says brightly. “I knew you looked familiar. Have you figured out a topic for that final paper yet?”

Cas can’t remember what the hell she’s talking about, but he nods stiffly. “Brainstormed a few ideas,” he says, “but, uh, I actually have to go. Sorry.” He nods at Anna and glances at Dean, who looks a bit taken aback by his abruptness. “See you at practice, Dean.”

He turns around to head back to his dorm and almost misses Dean’s confused, “Uh, sure, man. See ya.”

He shouldn’t be this upset.

Dean is the most gorgeous guy he’s ever met, and of course he’d be straight, of course he’d have a beautiful girlfriend,  _ of course  _ Cas got his hopes up.

Gabe’s got class, so Cas doesn’t have to worry about explaining why he looks like he just ran a marathon and is about to burst into angry tears, so Cas counts that as a small blessing. He dumps his bag onto his bed and kicks off his shoes before rummaging through his drawers, trying to find some workout clothes. Each action is tinged with frustration, and Cas only gives himself a few moments to change and lace up his sneakers before he grabs his batbag and stalks out of the room, not bothering to stop the door from slamming behind him.

 

There are a few students scattered throughout the gym, some running laps and some lifting weights, but nobody’s using the batting cage, which is all Cas cares about. He makes a beeline for the netting hanging from the ceiling and grabs a handful of it, lifting it above his head and ducking inside. 

There had been nothing to hint that Dean felt anything other than friendship toward Cas-- _ nothing _ \--and yet there Cas is, getting his hopes up only to have them come crashing down the second he realizes his can’t compete with Anna for Dean’s affections. He grabs a bucket of balls and loads them a bit too forcefully into the machine, mentally insulting himself with each one.

_ Nobody fucking likes you. _

_ You’re a neurotic, anxious mess. _

_ How could you be so  _ stupid _? _

_ Guys like Dean don’t go for guys like you. _

Once the pitching machine is fully loaded, Cas heads toward the rubber plate on the other side of the batting cage. He straps on his batting gloves and grips the bat tight before taking his stance and staring down the machine, waiting.

HIs therapist had told him to try to reverse his negative thoughts by canceling them out with positive ones. Cas had always secretly doubted the effectiveness of this line of thinking--whenever he tries to talk himself through the self-hatred, his subconscious just shoots back with an even worse insult. As he watches the pitching machine prepare to shoot the first ball his way, though, he figures he’ll give it one more shot. 

_ The baseball team likes me. _

_ Maybe, but I’m working on it. I’ll get better. _

_ You’re smart; you have a 3.6 GPA. _

Cas swings and misses when he tries to think up a comeback for his last thought-- _ Guys like Dean don’t go for guys like you _ \--and winces when he hears the ball thud against the canvas backstop. 

So much for that.

He connects with the rest of the pitches easily, letting his frustration and sadness out through the strength of his swings. It feels good, like a more socially acceptable version of screaming into a pillow. He just wishes he didn’t have a reason to do it. 

He swings and swings and swings until there are no balls left for him to hit, and the pitching machine turns itself off. Once it does, Cas sighs and drops his bat to the floor before bending down and picking up a few of the balls scattered around him. His arms full, he heads toward the machine and leans over the bucket, carefully opening his arms and letting the balls  _ thud, thud, thud _ into it. He grabs the handle and looks up, but stops short when he sees Dean standing at home plate, nonchalantly using Cas’ bat as a cane.

“Thought you were going to biochem,” Dean says. His voice is light and casual, but Cas can’t help but feel like there’s some sneaking suspicion in there, too.

“I...I was. I did.”

“Labs are in the exact opposite direction you headed.” Dean gives him a wry smile before dropping the bat and gathering some more balls that Cas hadn’t grabbed yet. “You okay? You left pretty quick.”

Cas closes his eyes as he holds out the bucket for Dean to deposit the balls in. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, sorry. Just kind of distracted today, I guess.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Dean pauses, then suddenly adds, “Hey, uh, do you not like Anna or something?”

Cas freezes. “What?”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly at Cas’ confusion, and when his cheeks go pink in embarrassment, Cas can feel his own face heating up, too. Dean rubs the back of his neck and glances down; when he looks back up, he’s back to his normal, non-flustered self.

“It’s nothin’, don’t worry about it. Hey, do you wanna--”

“Did she say something?” he asks. Cas’ interest is piqued, and he’s not letting Dean off  _ that  _ easy. 

Dean pauses before flashing him a small, tired grin. “Not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Not when you lead with asking whether or not I hate your girlfriend, no.”

Dean sighs and instead of answering, he heads over to the end of the batting cage and pulls up the netting, holding it back so that Cas can sneak through with the bucket of balls. Cas accepts the courtesy, assuming that Dean isn’t going to tell him anything, when his deep voice comes from behind.

“I want my girlfriend to like my friends, and vice versa,” he says quickly, and Cas keeps walking toward the equipment closet, hoping Dean hadn’t noticed the way his grip tightened on the bucket’s handle at the comment. “So when you basically hauled ass away from us the second I introduced her, I thought maybe you guys had a history or something. Anna said that she didn’t know you very well but you seemed nice enough, so I thought…” His voice fades, then he waves it off. “Y’know what, I don’t know what I thought. Forget it, man. It’s fine.”

Cas uses his hip to nudge open the door to the closet and drops the bucket next to the box of unused uniforms before turning back to Dean. “Anna and I  _ are _ fine,” he says, working hard to keep his voice level and as free of emotion as possible. “Like she said, we don’t know each other very well, but I have no reason to dislike her. I promise, I’m just having an off day. I’m sorry I worried you.”

Dean studies him for a few seconds, leaning back against the wall. He grins bemusedly and shakes his head. “You’re my friend, Cas,” he says, “I worry because I care. So stop apologizing. ‘M glad you and Anna are good, though.”

“Yes,” Cas says, waiting for Dean to exit the equipment closet before glancing back inside and flicking the light off. “Me, too.”


	3. Chapter 3

Practices start to last longer and are held more often, and before Cas knows it, they’re a day away from their season opener.

He’s quickly learned that it’s tradition for the Wildwood baseball team to use almost anything to go out to eat--he’s had dinners to celebrate birthdays, Fridays, Dean’s acceptance into the university art show, even ones just for Benny passing a programming exam he’d been particularly nervous about.

Tonight, their dinner is devoted to the beginning of the 2016 season, with the reasoning that all their free time will suddenly be disappearing for the foreseeable future. Cas and Dean had spent the afternoon together, going over signs and practicing a few new pitches before heading back to Dean’s dorm to get changed and meet the rest of the team.

“We’re going to be late,” Cas says, flopping back onto Dean’s bed.

“Since when has being late ever killed anyone?” Dean asks, his head in his closet as he tries to find something clean to wear.

Cas rolls his eyes. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t just bring a change of clothes to the gym so we could leave right from there.”

Dean grabs a shirt and gives it the sniff test. “Guess we can’t all be as organized as you, Cas,” he says, smirking. He finds the shirt acceptable; Cas’ cheeks go pink as Dean pulls off his sweaty workout shirt and starts changing into the new one, a worn flannel. _Don’t make it weird, don’t make it weird_. He rolls over onto his side to further try and avoid gawking at Dean and feels the corner of something dig into his ribs.

“Ugh, what--” He nudges his hand under his side and pulls out a sketchbook.

Dean glances up and chuckles. “Oh. Sorry, was workin’ on something for class before we met up.”

“Can I look at it?” Cas asks. The question is more of a formality than anything; the sketchbook is open, and Cas is already looking at it.

“I don’t care.”

The drawing is full of smudges and rough, sketchy lines, but the longer Cas looks at it, the more he can see what’s going on. The page is almost entirely filled by what looks like a liquor bottle, the neck running up until it disappears off the top of the page. The bottom of the page is what really catches Cas’ attention, though.

There are three figures standing inside the bottom of the bottle. The one on the right is tall and muscular, and seems to be yelling at the other two. He’s got a Marines jacket on, and is holding a bottle of his own in one fist. The figure on the left is yelling right back, and Cas pictures him making grand gestures with his arms based on the way they’re frozen in the air. He’s tall, even taller than the man on the right, and gangly, as if he’s still growing into his body. The one in the middle has his hands out, as if he’s trying to appease the two. There’s a dark mark underneath the middle one’s eye, and Cas wants to think that it’s a product of Dean’s hand rubbing against the paper and smudging the pencil, but he has a sinking feeling that Dean put it there on purpose.

“Dean?” Cas asks hesitantly, setting the sketchbook back down on the bed. “Uh, what’s this?”

When Dean looks over his shoulder, he almost looks like he wants to swear, as if he hadn’t remembered what drawing he had been working on. He purses his lips as he sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls on some socks, then gives Cas a small, humorless smile.

“Family portrait,” he says, and Cas swallows hard as he studies the drawing more closely.

“ _Your_ family?”

Dean’s cheeks redden, and he shakes his head. “Nah. Free sketch for class.”

“This one looks--” Cas brings the sketchbook closer to his face to study the figure in the middle, “--a lot like you, Dean.”

Dean bites his lip and finishes lacing up his boots. “Draw what you know,” he says awkwardly before getting to his feet. “Listen, Cas, it’s nothing, okay? Just an assignment for class. C’mon, man. We gonna leave them all waiting, or what?”

Cas looks at the sketch once more, then places it back down on Dean’s bed. “No,” he finally says. “No, let’s go.”

* * *

Cas wants to have a carefree night with his teammates, but carefree isn’t really in his vocabulary in the first place, and he still can’t get his mind off Dean’s sketch.

Next to him, Dean looks happy. He’s laughing and joking and probably drinking a little too much, but whatever pain he’d been channeling to work on that drawing seems to be gone now. The whole team eats and laughs and shits on each other, until the end of the night, when Kevin shouts that they need to take their annual preseason photo. He herds them all into one side of their table, trying to get everyone looking in the same direction at the same time, and making sure no one looks particularly smashed.

“Come on, guys, get it together! It’s just for ten seconds! Be responsible adults for ten goddamn _seconds_ !” Kevin says, smacking Ash’s hand away as he tries to drunkenly caress his hair. Cas glances over at Dean, who’s grinning around the lip of his beer bottle, taking one long swig before setting it down on the table. He catches Cas looking at him and smirks, flashing him a _look at these assholes_ face.

Cas tries to keep that face--not the one Dean had drawn on himself in that sketch, or the one he’d made when he saw Cas looking at it--ingrained in his mind, and smiles as the waiter snaps their photo.

* * *

Cas’ phone chimes when he gets back to his dorm, and he sees an alert that he’d been tagged in a photo. He taps the notification and, sure enough, there’s the group shot from a few hours earlier. Cas grins down at it in spite of himself: his teammates might be a little crazy and overzealous, but they take care of their own, and that’s all Cas can ask for.

Another notification comes through quickly after that, this one saying that Dean Winchester liked a photo he was tagged in. And before Cas can think about it for another second, he clicks over to Dean’s profile. He doubts he’ll be able to find anything related to that drawing, but maybe he’d at least be able to learn a bit more about the fabled Winchester family.

There’s a new photo on Dean’s timeline in addition to tonight’s, one Cas hadn’t seen over break. A beautiful woman with flowing blonde hair and a kind face is sitting on a couch, two little boys on each knee. She’s snuggling them close, mussing up their hair and laughing; everything about her looks blissful, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

Cas isn’t sure who the younger boy in the photo is, but he immediately recognizes the one with the sandy blonde hair as a tiny Dean--he’d know that crooked smile and dusting of freckles anywhere. He looks so _happy_ , and Cas finds himself smiling down at his phone.

He glances up to see who tagged Dean in the photo. Sam, Dean’s little brother. He’s also quite young, but still looks remarkably similar to the other boy in Dean’s drawing, and Cas sighs as he gets more and more proof that Dean’s sketch wasn’t just of some random family. He scrolls down a bit to read the caption under the photo.

“Two years, and we still miss you every day.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Cas breathes, his heart dropping down into his gut. The photo has attracted lots of comments, sympathetic sentiments and offers of support, and Cas drags a hand down over his mouth. The photo had been posted recently, only a few days ago.

Cas has never been good at offering support in times of crisis; no matter how hard he tries, he always leaves feeling like he did more harm than good. Although Dean hasn’t even approached him about the subject--and he likely never will--Cas still finds himself wondering what he would say if he opened his door one night to a tearful Dean Winchester.

Cas closes out of the Facebook app with a sigh, clicking his phone off. He places the third man in Dean’s drawing as their father, and starts to think about whether or not what Dean had depicted is something Sam still goes through on a regular basis, or if it’s something from the past.

Before thinking too much more about it, he decides he doesn’t want to know.

* * *

Cas can’t figure out why, but Dean is off.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Dean says, smacking his fist into his glove and dropping down into a squat. He rests his elbows on his thighs and stares down at the dirt, covering his mouth and nose with his glove for a few seconds before popping back up and holding his empty glove up to Cas.

“You good?” Cas asks, and waits for Dean to answer in the affirmative before tossing the ball back to him. “Take a breath,” Cas says as he gets back down into his catching position. “You’ve got this.”

Cas has to drop to his knees to box in the next pitch to prevent the ball from hitting the backstop.

The next one nearly sails over his head.

The third is so wide and comes in so fast that Cas doesn’t even try to catch it, and barely has time to turn around before he hears it clatter against the backstop.

Dean’s getting more and more frustrated with every pitch, and finally, Cas gets to his feet and jogs out to the mound. Dean tries to wave him off, but Cas persists. He watches as Dean toes the rubber with his cleat.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks again, shoving his mask up on top of his head.

“Yeah,” Dean says quickly, pulling his cap down further over his eyes and holding his glove out for the ball. “‘M fine, Cas, just gimme some more time.”

Cas resists the urge to point out that they’ve been practicing for over half an hour and that _time_ might not be what Dean needs. He worries his lower lip between his teeth and keeps his eyes on Dean.

Suddenly, Dean snaps his head up and glares at Cas. “Why the fuck are you staring at me?” he demands. “Don’t think I can’t tell, Cas. It’s goddamn creepy.”

Cas gapes at him, struggling to find the right words. “Dean, I, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I didn’t--”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dean says. He reaches forward and yanks the ball out of Cas’ hand before turning his back on him and kicking at some more dirt.

“Dean, what the hell is wrong with you?” Cas’ words leave his mouth before he can even think about them, and his cheeks are bright red when Dean turns around to glare at him again.

“I can’t have a bad day? Is that so fucking unacceptable to you?”

“This isn’t like you,” Cas says. “I haven’t known you for long, but I know for sure that _this_ \--” he gestures vaguely at Dean, “--isn’t the Dean Winchester I know. So forgive me for being goddamn concerned for my first and closest friend at Wildwood.”

Dean stiffens at that, and he studies Cas with those green eyes that normally look bright and warm, but are now closed-off and angry. He takes a deep breath, and for a second, Cas thinks--hopes--that Dean is going to apologize, but instead, he heads toward the dugout. Cas watches him for a few seconds, stunned, then clambers after him.

“Dean, what’s going on?” he asks again, putting his hand over Dean’s batbag to stop him from packing up.

Dean tilts his head back frustratedly and stares up at the roof of the dugout. “Christ, Cas, it’s an off day. I already told you. That’s it, so stop fucking babying me.”

“Is it about your family?” His eyes widen immediately as he realizes he just gave away his creeping habits; Dean hasn’t told him anything about the anniversary; he shouldn’t know about it.

Dean had been prepared to snap at him, Cas can tell, but Cas’ comment catches him off guard, and he hesitates. “Why the _fuck_ would this be about my family?” He’s not yelling, but his voice is harsh, and Cas feels like he’s just shrunk to the size of a hobbit.

“I just, I saw--”

Dean shakes his head and jerks his batbag away from Cas. “I’ll see you later,” he says, heading back toward campus without a second glance, leaving Cas standing in the dugout.

* * *

“Heya, Babe Ruth,” Gabe says when Cas enters their room.

“Gabe,” Cas says in greeting, dropping his gear bag in front of his closet and flopping down stomach-first onto his bed with a groan. He toes his cleats off and lets them drop to the floor before pulling his phone out of his pocket and staring at the blank screen.

He wants to text Dean and apologize, explain himself, get to the bottom of whatever the hell just happened, but something stops him. He unlocks his phone and swipes over to his text messages, opening up his thread with Dean. He’s considering typing a novella to him, rife with apologies and “I didn’t know”s, but Gabe interrupts his mental outlining process before he can get too far.

“Thought you had practice,” he says, his teeth crunching around his latest handful of chips. “Or did Prince Charming stand you up?”

Cas jerks at that, and rolls over to face Gabe. “I...what?” he asks, trying to keep his voice as unflustered as possible.

Gabe chuckles before reaching over onto his desk, grabbing a Twix bar, and tossing it across the room to Cas. “You think you’re foolin’ _anybody_?” he says. “Your eyes practically turn into fucking hearts the second anyone talks about him.”

Cas closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before unwrapping the candy bar. So much for subtle. “I didn’t think I was _that_ obvious,” he says softly, rolling over once more so that he’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Gabe scoffs. “Yeah, and Winchester’s not _that_ ridiculously good-looking.”

Cas looks at him curiously. “Aren’t you dating Kali--”

“I can still appreciate a quality specimen,” Gabe says with a smirk. “Too bad he’s taken, though.”

 _And straight_ , Cas wants to add, but he just nods.

“So, he stand you up, or what?”

Cas shrugs one shoulder the way he always sees Dean do. “He just, he wasn’t himself today. At all.”

“ So, what, people can’t have off days?”

“What if I did something to upset him?” Cas asks, his stomach doing flips at the thought that yes, he absolutely did.

Gabe holds a finger up in the air thoughtfully. “Consider this,” he says. “What if you didn’t?”

Cas hates that his first reaction to that is, _that’s not possible_ , but he keeps it to himself.

“Listen, Debbie Downer,” Gabe says, slapping his open palms on his thighs before getting to his feet, “this emotional crisis is riveting and all, but I’m grabbing pizza with Balthazar, you coming?” He pauses. “Actually, scratch that; I’m _making_ you come, because there’s no way in hell I’m letting you sulk in here alone all night. Now put on some normal pants and let’s go.”

Cas is shrugging into his jacket when his phone vibrates against his leg. He digs it out of his pocket and does a double-take. It’s a text from Dean--he must’ve meant to send it to someone else.

_you free for dinner tonight?_

He stares at his phone screen until it goes dark, unsure of how to respond.

“Hey,” Gabe says, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. “Pick up the pace, man.”

Cas looks up from his phone, his eyes wide. “It’s Dean. He, uh, he wants to get dinner tonight.”

Gabe’s face softens at that, but he still smirks. “Oh, I see how it is,” he says, leaning against the frame melodramatically. “Ditch your beloved roommate for a crush. Fine.”

“Gabe--”

Gabe shakes his head. “We gotta get you more up to speed on how to recognize a joke, Novak. Goddamn.”

Cas flashes his roommate a small smile. “I’ll work on it. I promise.”

“Good.” And with that Gabe, ducks out of their room and jogs down the hallway; a few seconds later, Cas can hear him banging on Balthazar’s door. “Up and at ‘em, Balthy, come on!”

Cas waits for their door to close entirely before unlocking his phone and typing out a quick reply.

_Sure._

_Meet at DH in 20?_

_Okay._

_cool_

 

Dean is standing outside the dining hall, and Cas approaches him slowly. He’s listening to music, not really paying attention to anyone or anything around him, which gives Cas a chance to check out his body language, to see if he’s still pissed off. He’s not doing anything out of the ordinary, his posture still relaxed and casual, and before Cas knows it, Dean’s spotted him.

He tugs his earbuds out of his ears and heads for Cas, meeting him halfway.

“Hey.”

“Hello, Dean.” Cas jams his hands into his pockets, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t trust himself not to fuck things up again, so he stays silent.

“Listen,” Dean says, running a hand through his hair. He’s having a hard time looking at Cas, and Cas digs his fingernails into his palms, trying not to jump to conclusions.

_You’re just too weird, man._

_I talked to Chuck, Garth’s gonna catch me from now on._

_Maybe you should’ve stayed at Samwell._

“I was a dick,” Dean says, and Cas’ head snaps up. “Earlier, I mean.”

“Dean, I’m--”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You don’t have to be nice, Cas. There’s no universe where what I did _wasn’t_ an asshole move.” He gives Cas a small smile. “A lot of shit has gone on the past couple days and it all sort of bubbled up at once, and I...it sucks. I forgot Sammy had posted that picture, it only makes sense you would’ve seen it, I shouldn’t have--”

“Are you okay, Dean?” Cas asks softly, and Dean looks at him. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth, and Cas can’t tell if it’s a trick of the rapidly diminishing light, but he thinks he can see Dean’s eyes going glassy.

“Two years, man,” he says with a sigh. “Two years, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. Sam says I bottle up my emotions too much, that I should try posting pictures or talking about her more, that it’d help, but I don’t know. That’s his thing. Not mine.”

“Could you draw her?” Cas asks hesitantly, and by the way Dean shakes his head defeatedly, Cas can tell he’s tried.

Cas doesn’t think about it before he closes up the space between them by pulling Dean into a hug, something Dean seems to be just as surprised by as he is, judging by the way his arms stay stiff at his sides. After a second, though, Cas can feel Dean’s arms wrap around his torso and link behind his back, and the pressure of Dean returning the hug, resting his forehead against the top of Cas’ shoulder, feels better than any hug Cas has ever gotten.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says.

“Th’nks, Cas,” Dean says into his shoulder.

Cas lets Dean decide when to break the hug, and when he does, Cas feels him thump his hand against Cas’ back.

“So, yeah,” Dean says, walking toward the dining hall’s main doors. “I’m...yeah.”

Cas smiles at him, relief flooding through his entire body. “It’s okay, Dean.”

“This was hers,” Dean says suddenly, holding up his right hand so Cas can see the plain silver ring on his finger, something Cas had never noticed before. “I don’t wear it during practice or games,” he says, as if he already knew Cas’ unasked question. “Don’t want it to get scuffed up or anything, y’know?”

“Of course.”

The dining hall is packed, and it takes them a few laps around the hall before they can find an open table. They’re finally able to snag one near the bulletin board, where a bright pink flyer catches Dean’s eye.

“Fucking soccer,” he mutters, his voice sharper than usual, and Cas glances up at the flyer. It’s for a fundraiser event being held in the Max Cafe by women’s soccer next week.

“Wait, you’re not going?” Cas asks, trying and failing to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Dean scoffs. “Why would I go to that?”

Cas hesitates. “Well, I mean, it’s hosted by women’s soccer, and I know Anna’s on the team, so I thought…” His voice trails off when he sees Dean glance down uncomfortably.

“Remember how I said earlier that a bunch of shit all sort of came up at once?”

“Yes.”

“This is part two of said shit. Me and Anna, we, uh, we kind of…” He falters, trying to come up with the right word, then just settles on, “We broke up. Couple nights ago.”

The words hit Cas like a punch to the gut, and he sets down his sandwich. “Oh. I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean sighs before flashing Cas his trademark easy smile that clearly doesn’t come so easy this time. “‘S fine,” he says.

Cas wonders if this is a step too far, but he and Dean are friends, and he knows that if he’d just been broken up with, he’d want to rant about it, even for just a few minutes. “You don’t have to tell me,” he starts quickly, “but, uh, what happened?”

Dean chuckles. “You ever seen Aaron Bass around campus? Junior, music major? Spends all his time on the quad playing guitar?”

Cas nods. “He’s very attractive,” he says without thinking, then immediately wants to scoop all the words up and shove them back into his mouth. What if Anna left Dean for Aaron? What if she cheated on him with Aaron? _Goddamn it, Cas, and you just called him fucking_ attractive--

“Yeah.” Dean sighs. “I think so, too.”

Cas’ eyes widen before he can stop them, and his heart feels like it’s just been sucker-punched. “Y-you do?”

“Hell, yeah, dude.” Dean glances at him like he’s crazy. “Have you _heard_ him sing? And his ey--” Dean cuts himself off after a quick glance at Cas, after which he looks down, almost sheepishly. “He’s just, I don’t know, he’s cute. And I mentioned it in front of Anna, and she flipped.”

Cas pauses. “You think--so you’re...bisexual?”

Dean smiles faintly. “Ding, ding, ding.”

Cas can feel fireworks going off in his chest, but he tries hard to keep even the slightest semblance of cool on the outside. He wants to ask so many questions, the most important one being, _Have you ever thought about_ me _,_ but instead he just nods and worries his lower lip with his teeth. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Dean chuckles, grabbing his water and twisting off the cap. “You’re sorry I’m bi?” he asks before taking a long swig.

Even though he knows that Dean is just teasing him, Cas’ face burns with embarrassment. “No, of course not,” he says quickly, stumbling over his words. “I, no. No.”

“Okay, sure, maybe I shouldn’t comment on how good-looking other people are around my girlfriend, but the way she reacted…” He trails off again, and shakes his head. “I think we still would’ve been together if I’d been checking out another girl instead.”

Cas can tell that he’s trying to brush it off and act casual, but that inside, even just saying those words hurts. He wants to be supportive, sympathetic, but at the same time, he’s having a hard time not celebrating the fact that _Dean could be interested in him_.

“I mean, that’s normal, isn’t it? To still find someone fucking attractive and be able to say that to your partner without them feeling threatened?” He points at Cas, and Cas feels his spine straighten. “You ever said another dude was cute in front of your boyfriend?”

Cas opens his mouth to answer--what his answer would be, he has no idea--but before he can, Dean waves him off.

“It doesn’t matter. That just set a bunch of shit off, we were arguing for a while, and she told me competing against girls was enough,” he says quietly. “And that she didn’t want to have to deal with guys, too. At least, that’s the reason she gave.” He chuckles humorlessly to himself before pushing his plate away from him with a single finger. “Didn’t realize I was such a hassle.”

“Dean, you’re not--”

Dean coughs, just loud and fake-sounding enough for Cas to recognize it for what it is. “So, yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “That’s why I’m steering clear of the Max that day.”

Cas worries his bottom lip between his teeth, still trying to process all this new information. “That’s understandable,” he says.

Dean laughs humorlessly. “I’d hope so.” He’s silent for a few seconds, then looks up. “I’ll be back,” he says. “I need some comfort food.” With that, he gets up and heads for the ice cream station, leaving Cas alone with his thoughts, the last place Cas wants to be.

* * *

 

“Let’s go, Vic!” Cas yells from the dugout, looping his fingers through the holes in the chain link fence. “You got this!”

“Get it, Henriksen!” Benny hollers, smacking the aluminum bench repeatedly with his open palm, leading to even more cheers from the rest of the Wildwood team.

The dugout is thick with anticipation and nerves, and Cas can barely look as Vic takes a moment to check the sign from Chuck down the third base line, then make himself at home back in the batter’s box again. He adjusts his batting gloves and grips the bat tightly before resuming his stance.

They’re losing to Northeastern 3-2 in the game that’ll decide who moves on to playoffs; it’s the bottom of the ninth, with two outs already on the books. Cas has read about games like these, but actually _being_ in one is something else entirely. Garth had walked and, sneaky little dude that he is, stolen second, and Victor is now the winning run. Cas hates moments like these, where things can come crashing down in a matter of seconds; he’s just glad that _he’s_ not the one in Victor’s situation.

Northeastern’s pitcher stares down for the sign, winds up, and pitches. Vic takes a small step forward--he's going to swing.

The ball goes flying off Vic’s bat with a crack, and suddenly, everyone else is pressed up against the fence with Cas, watching the ball soar into the outfield.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Benny mutters next to him. “Get out!”

The world seems to move in slow motion as everyone--Vic included--watches the ball. Northeastern’s center fielder sprints after it, staring up at it until he gets to the fence. He reaches his glove up to try and grab it.

The ball sails over his glove and out of the field, and just like that, Wildwood’s headed for the playoffs.

Cas and his teammates erupt in cheers and yells. Northeastern's players stand awkwardly at their positions, watching dejectedly as Garth and Vic round the bases, Vic pumping his fist over and over.

Andy leads the charge out of the dugout, and they all crowd around home plate, waiting for Vic to approach. Chuck is beaming and clapping as Vic rounds third, then smacks him on the back as he passes.

He finally trots toward home plate, laughing and drumming his hands on his thighs as he runs, until he plows into his teammates, and they all start cheering and jumping on him, Cas included. He's never been part of a walk-off victory celebration, and it's exhilarating. He’s vaguely aware of Northeastern’s players trudging back toward their dugout, but all he can focus on are the laughs and cheers from his own teammates.

Cas is standing toward the back, waiting to high five Vic, when he feels someone grab his shoulders, whirl him around, and pull him close; he glances up, and Dean's got his arms wrapped around him in a tight hug.

He takes a step back and beams at Cas, his eyes wide and bright with adrenaline. “Fucking _awesome_ ,” he says excitedly, and Cas grins widely at him. The walk-off had been amazing, of course, but the hug?

 _Really_ fucking awesome.

* * *

Cas had been planning on laying low on Saturday. Chuck had given them a rare day off after their victory, and despite Gabriel’s constant pestering that he should get out more, Cas’ plans had included nothing but catching up on homework, maybe reading for a while on the quad, and getting to bed early.

But then Dean found out he’d never been to a Red Sox game.

The disappointment had been evident on his face, but he’d remedied the situation fast by stealing Cas’ laptop, ordering them two cheap nosebleed seats for that night’s game, then saying that he’d meet him back in his room at five.

Which is how Cas finds himself pressed up against fifty other people in a crowded subway car barreling toward Fenway Park on his supposed lazy Saturday.

“I still can’t believe this,” Dean says, adjusting his grip on the bar above his head as the T arrives at the next stop. “You’ve been here for, what, almost a year, and you _still_ haven’t seen a Sox game?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I’m fixing it now, aren’t I?”

“Let’s just hope they win for you.”

They spend a few moments in silence, nothing but the occasional stop announcement and chatter of other passengers around them. Cas spends the first part of the ride gazing out the window at the dark concrete walls of the subway tunnel, but his attention is caught by Dean’s reflection in the tempered glass.

The way Dean easily adjusts to the twists and turns of the train, his legs a few feet apart, just slightly bent at the knees as if he’s preparing to drop and field a grounder, it’s all entrancing. He sways his hips unconsciously in sync with the train as it curves around turns, and Cas just stares--at the way his jeans hug his hips, at his tanned, toned arms, at the way he lets his eyes wander aimlessly around the train, not afraid of accidentally making eye contact with someone; he’d already done it earlier in the ride, and just offered the stranger a grin and made small talk about the game. Casual, cool, the exact opposite of Cas while being exactly what Cas wants. Cas closes his eyes and tightens his grip on the bar.

He imagines just leaning into Dean, casual and nonchalant, like couples do.

He wishes he could let their bodies press together as they adjust to the swaying and jerking of the train, that Dean would wrap his arm around his shoulders and hold him close. In an attempt to distract himself, he pulls out his phone and unlocks it. There’s a new text from Gabe-- _DON’T GET TOO HANDSY NOVAK_ \--that he can’t close out of soon enough, hopefully before Dean caught a glimpse of it.

Cas shakes his head and pulls off the Red Sox hat he’d borrowed from Gabe before running a hand through his hair. _Dean just got out of a relationship. He doesn’t want a boyfriend. Stop trying to fuck this up and just be his_ friend.

Someone jostles by him, and when he looks up, Dean is grinning at him. “You ready, dude?”

Cas sucks in a breath and nods, forcing a smile onto his face. “Can I assume you’ll be buying our hot dogs?” he asks.

Dean grins before jokingly shoving him out of the train. “Hot dogs _and_ beer, Cas, come on. You only go to your first Sox game once. Let’s go.”

 

Kenmore Square is teeming with people in Red Sox jerseys, vendors selling cheap T-shirts and souvenir programs, scalpers leaning against buildings trying to act discreet and casual while selling people overpriced tickets, and Cas’ heart rate is picking up with every step further into the crowd. Normally, he would be afraid that he and Dean would get separated, except for the fact that everyone is so packed together, his chest is almost pressed flush up against Dean’s back until they actually get into the park.

Once they’ve arrived, there’s a lot more room for people to spread out, and Cas sighs in relief at the newfound breathing room. Dean glances back at him, his eyes bright with excitement. “Beers or seats first?” He pauses, then before Cas can answer, decides for them. “Seats. Let’s go.”

According to Dean, Fenway Park is actually one of the smallest ballparks in the country, but to Cas, it seems huge. Dean maneuvers them through the maze of concrete floors, souvenir booths, bars, and food stands until they’re standing in front of a short hallway that’ll lead them into the park and to their seats.

Cas is about to walk down toward the park when he feels a hand grab his shirt, pulling him back. “Dean, what--”

“No, no, no, hold on,” Dean says, scurrying in front of him. He holds up his hands and walks backward. “I wanna see your reaction, dude.”

“Dean, I’m sure it’s not--”

“Noooooope,” Dean says, grinning. He glances over his shoulder, then stops and motions for Cas to finally start walking toward him.

“I feel like an idiot,” he says. A woman and her two small kids pass him casually, their arms laden with food and small ice cream sundaes in little plastic ball caps.

Dean laughs. “It’ll be worth it, Cas. Come on.”

Cas picks up the pace, grinning at the anticipation and excitement on Dean’s face. Dean can tell that Cas is still focusing on him, though, and snaps his fingers. “Hey, I’m not the main attraction here--” _Yes, you are_ , Cas thinks, “--eyes on the prize, Novak.”

“Fine, fine.” When Cas gets to the end of the tunnel, he looks up, and he can feel his eyes widen, his jaw drop open slightly in awe. He’s been to a few major league games, so he’s no stranger to stadiums, but something about Fenway is...different. It feels homey, somehow, like Cas knows every single visitor and employee there, and they know him. Players are scattered around the impeccably kept outfield grass, stretching and playing catch until the game starts. After looking around at the scene around them, his eyes are immediately drawn to the Green Monster, the monstrosity of a wall in left field.

He could spend the entire game just standing there, taking in everything around him, but Dean has different ideas. “We have actual seats, you know,” he says. “We don’t have to watch the whole game from here.”

“You don’t say.”

Dean stares at him for a second, then laughs. “Fuck off, Cas.” He digs into his pocket for his ticket, then motions for Cas to follow him. “Let’s go, rookie.”

 

Cas tries to focus on the game, he really does, but if the Red Sox want him to pay better attention, they should probably hire a pitcher as attractive as Dean Winchester to play for them.

They sample all the food Fenway has to offer, cheer and boo along with the crowd, and as the night goes on, Cas finds himself laughing more easily, smiling more readily, and just feeling better. He can joke with Dean, and Dean can joke with him, something Cas has never really felt comfortable doing with anyone until now.

One of his favorite parts of the night comes in the form of watching Dean focus on the pitcher, his fingers tented over his mouth as he studies everything about him--how often he uses the rosin bag, how many times he taps his cleats against the rubber, his windup and delivery, everything.

It’s really fucking adorable, and if Dean notices Cas looking, he doesn’t seem to mind.

  


It’s not exactly a _good_ game--the Red Sox are losing 7-3 by the time the seventh inning rolls around--but Cas is still having fun. Fenway’s beers are overpriced and nothing special, and Cas tries to refuse them more than once, but Dean insists that they’re all part of the experience, to go along with Fenway Franks, which, Cas has to admit, are worth the money, even if it’s just for the novelty alone.

 _“Ladies and gentlemen, we invite all of our Fenway Faithful to stand up and strrrrrretch!”_ a voice over the speaker system booms. Cas is content to stay seated in the hard, tiny seat, but Dean nudges his shoulder.

“C’mon,” he says. “Seventh inning stretch.”

Cas concedes and gets to his feet, wincing at the way the soles of his shoes stick to the cement floor, which is coated in stale beer, peanut shells, and who knows what else. He takes a sip of his beer as some music starts playing, and Dean grins.

Cas is expecting “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” but instead, he hears the opening notes of a song his mom loves, “Sweet Caroline.” He’s confused at first, but apparently he’s the only one caught off guard by the weird music choice, because it seems like everyone else crammed into the park is already singing along.

Cas wrinkles his nose. “Neil Diamond?” he asks curiously.

“Of course!” Dean shouts over the din of the crowd and the rapidly swelling music.

“But...why?”

Dean gapes at him. “ _Why?_ ” he repeats. “It’s tradition!”

“What about ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’?”

Dean waves his hand dismissively before taking another long swig of his beer. “No, fuck that. ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame’ is for chumps.”

The music gets louder and louder as the chorus approaches, and Cas’ eyes wander around the park. Sure enough, he’s one of the only people _not_ reveling in the moment. Everyone around them is laughing and singing, holding their beers up in the air; they’re all part of this community together, if only for a few hours, and Cas can’t tell if the warmth in his gut is from that or the booze.

Suddenly, an arm drapes across his shoulders and Cas stumbles as Dean pulls him close, singing loudly next to his ear. His voice is off-key, but something about it makes Cas think that, without the yelling and alcohol, Dean would actually be a good singer. Dean doesn’t seem to care, though; he flashes Cas a crooked grin and raises his beer before launching into the song’s chorus.

 

_Hands, touching hands, reachin’ out, touchin’ me, touchin youuuuuuu_

 

Cas grins at Dean, who’s got his eyes closed and is holding his cup up even higher, his grip on Cas’ shoulder just as tight. He’s taken by surprise when Dean and the rest of the park burst out in voices even louder than before.

 

_Sweeeeeeet Caroline, bup bup bah_

_Good times never seemed so good_

 

The music suddenly cuts out, and Cas is startled as the entire park yells out, “ _So good, so good, so good_!” at the top of their lungs. Dean notices Cas’ reaction and pulls him even closer to him with a laugh.

 

_I’ve been inclined, bup bup bah_

_To believe they never would_

 

“You’ll get used to it,” he says, tapping his plastic cup against Cas’.

The next time the chorus comes around, Cas sings, not caring that his singing voice is more of a cracking, out-of-tune yell. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, and when he glances over at him, Dean flashes him a crooked grin.

So good, so good, indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

A few days later, Cas is startled awake by a knock on the door. He rolls over onto his back with a moan when the knocking persists, wondering if he’s still dreaming. Sleepily, Cas opens one eye and glances blearily at his phone--6:37 am. On a fucking Saturday. The Saturday of their first fucking playoff game, no less.

Gabe’s bed across the room is empty, and Cas feels his irritability increase tenfold. It’s one thing for Gabe to forget his room key--for the tenth time this month--but another thing entirely for him to wake Cas up at six in the morning to let him in. 

The knocking continues, and Cas groans before forcing himself out of bed and padding across the room in his socked feet. He flicks the lock open with a little more force than necessary and swings open the door, fully prepared to put his foot down and tell Gabe he’s had enough of this when he sees Dean standing sheepishly in the hall instead.

_ Oh, shit _ .

Cas’ cheeks go red as he realizes that he’s wearing nothing but boxers, socks, and a ratty T-shirt in front of Dean fucking Winchester. Dean’s got his batbag slung over one shoulder, and looks apologetic for a split second before narrowing his eyes and looking Cas up and down with that crooked smirk Cas has gotten to know so well.

“Morning, Bill Nye,” he says.

Cas takes a few steps forward so that he can peek out of the doorway and glances around, wondering if this is some kind of hazing thing and half-expecting the rest of the team to pop out of nowhere, but when the hallway remains empty, Cas steps back into his room. 

“Am I missing something?” he finally asks. He turns around and starts digging through his laundry for a pair of shorts, motioning for Dean to enter. 

“Pants, apparently.”

“Shut up,” Cas says as he sniffs a pair of shorts before pulling them on. Dean chuckles and makes himself comfortable on Cas’ bed. Cas is about to reprimand him for putting his dirty sneakers on his sheets and blankets when he notices that even though Dean’s sprawled out on his bed, he’s taken care to keep his feet off to the side. “Is there any particular reason you’re here at six in the morning on a Saturday?”

Dean looks away, suddenly sheepish, and for a second, Cas wonders if he said something wrong. “Y’know what, it’s nothin’,” he says, his relaxed posture quickly switching over to stiff and awkward as he gets to his feet. “Sorry for wakin’ you up, man.”

Dean is just about to head out the door when Cas grabs his elbow. “Dean,” he says, “what?”

He sighs, and Cas keeps his hand on his elbow until he heads back to Cas’ bed and sits down. “I’m just--this game is  _ big _ , and I’m, I don’t know.” He trails off, but Cas doesn’t need many more context clues to figure out how Dean is feeling. 

Chuck had told him and Dean shortly after their win against Northeastern that Dean would be starting their first playoff game, and even though he’s been trying to hide it, Cas knows Dean’s nerves have been through the roof. 

Dean glances up at him, then rests his elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor. He looks like he’s about to say something, then laughs humorlessly to himself. “Guys in third rotation don’t start playoff games, everyone knows that. Benny should be starting, not me.”

Cas opens his mouth to respond, to assure Dean that his fears are unfounded and that he can do this, but he’s never seen Dean like this before, and he can’t shake the unsettled feeling in his gut.

“Dean, if Chuck wanted Benny to start, he would’ve had him start.” 

Dean’s lips quirk up in a half-smile, but he shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the floor. 

“Hey.” Cas leans down and snaps his fingers in front of Dean’s face. “Are you going to look at me?”

“Nope.”

Arms folded across his chest, Cas stares at Dean for a few seconds, hoping he’d feel Cas’ eyes on him and look up, but he doesn’t move. Cas sighs and thinks back to something his older brother did when they were young, when Cas would get upset and sulk. 

Cas doesn’t  _ do  _ this. He doesn’t make a fool out of himself for anyone, but Dean looks so sad, so anxious, and Cas wants those feelings gone. “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?”

Dean almost,  _ almost _ looks like he’s going to glance up at that, because he obviously has no idea what Cas is talking about, but he keeps his head down. “Guess so,” he says to the floor.

Cas rolls his eyes. “The things I do for you, Dean Winchester.” With that, he turns around so that his back is facing Dean and drops to his knees, then lays down entirely. The floor is cold against his neck and arms, and Cas uses his feet to scooch himself closer to Dean. He nudges his head in between Dean’s feet and stares up at him, an unamused expression on his face.

“There,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now you  _ have  _ to look at me.”

Dean stares down at him, his brow furrowed. Other than looking extremely confused, he doesn’t react, and just as Cas begins to wonder if he’d made a fool of himself for nothing, Dean throws back his head and laughs.

Snarky chuckles and crooked grins and narrow-eyed smirks, Cas had seen, but he’d never seen or heard Dean laugh like this. It’s a rich, deep sound that Cas almost immediately falls in love with, and his attempt to keep his face serious fails as he dissolves into laughter, as well.

Once he’s recovered, Dean gets to his feet and takes care to avoid stepping on Cas. He takes a few steps forward then turns around, offering a hand to help him up. “Okay, fine. You win. You happy?” he asks as Cas reaches up and clasps his fingers around Dean’s.

“Very.” Cas relishes the way Dean pulls him to his feet, and brushes his pants and shirt off once he’s upright again. “Do you feel better?”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, then pauses. “I...don’t feel like I’m gonna puke anymore.”

Cas raises his eyebrows, considering this. “I’ll take it,” he finally says, and Dean grins at him. “Would catch help?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his lopsided grin getting just a little bit wider. “Catch would definitely help.”

 

Cas doesn’t understand where Dean’s nerves are coming from; his pitches have been on point all morning, and he tells him as such.

“Wheelock won’t know what hit them,” Cas says after Dean delivers his eighth strike in a row. He windmills his arm a few times to loosen up a bit more before lobbing the ball back to Dean.

“Yeah, well, can’t be too optimistic,” Dean says.

“That’s the spirit,” Cas mutters. He thought he’d made his voice soft enough that Dean wouldn’t hear, but when his bright green eyes widen in indignation, Cas knows he’d failed.

“These are the playoffs we’re talkin’ about, Cas!” Dean says. “Jesus, I’m not gettin’ ahead of myself on this.”

Cas chuckles as he crouches back down into his stance. “You can be confident, you know.”

Dean taps his temple then points to Cas. “I’ll  _ be _ confident when I  _ feel  _ confident.”

Cas waits for him to pitch--this one’s a bit wide, but Cas won’t hold it against him--then shoots him an unamused look. “Do you think you could speed it up, then? Some of us would like to grab a nap sometime today.”

Dean stares back at him, then laughs. “Fuck off, Novak, and catch my pitches.”

* * *

 

There are night games, and then there are  _ playoff _ night games.

Cas can practically reach out and touch the energy around Thompson Field. He’s been so used to quarter-full bleachers, people attending just to kill time before something better comes along, that seeing hordes of people choosing to spend their Friday night here feels like they’re in some kind of alternate reality. 

“You ready?” 

Cas turns around to see Dean looking at him expectantly. He needs something to do with his hands, so he’s focusing on breaking in his already-broken-in glove. 

“I am,” Cas says. “But I wasn’t the one who wouldn’t be confident until he felt confident.” He smirks at Dean’s chuckle. “Are you?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Cas is about to reassure Dean one more time that everything will be fine, he’ll kick ass, when Chuck returns to the dugout after meeting with the umpires and opposing coaches at home plate. An electric silence full of energy falls over them all, and Chuck claps his hands.

“Let’s play ball, guys.”

 

Cas takes a few seconds to balance himself on his haunches, then stares at the mound and into Dean’s eyes, which are shaded over by the brim of his cap.  _ Two outs, one ball, two strikes _ . They could end this inning right now, make Wheelock leave the bases loaded without scoring a single run, and Cas decides to have Dean throw the pitch that’ll almost certainly do just that. He tucks his free hand between his legs and flashes two fingers, then three, then twirls his index finger in a corkscrew motion--Dean’s eyes focus on the signals, then flick back up to Cas’ eyes before he gives him a quick nod and digs his cleat into the dirt in front of him. 

Dean turns to the side and stares down at his glove, fingering the stitches on the ball before taking a deep breath and focusing on Cas’ mitt.  _ Come on, Dean,  _ Cas pleads,  _ we’ve done this a million times in practice. Just one more… _

Dean stares long and hard into Cas’ open mitt, and Cas works to stay as still as possible for him, watching the way Dean’s brow furrows in concentration, the way he bites on his lower lip as he prepares. Finally, he straightens, glances back at each individual runner, winds up, and throws.

From the second the ball leaves Dean’s hand, Cas can tell that it’s a good one. A perfect slider; it’ll fool the batter without a problem, he’ll strike out, and they’ll get out of the inning unscathed. Cas prepares for the batter to swing and miss, and for the ball to land in his mitt with a satisfying smack.

But he doesn’t catch the ball. Instead, the batter connects with it and sends it rocketing back toward where it came. Cas realizes what’s going to happen before Dean does and springs to his feet, tearing off his mask and yelling Dean’s name.

Dean just barely has enough time to glance at Cas before the line drive smashes into the side of his head, and he collapses into the dirt.

 

Things are a bit blurry after that. Cas curses his bulky catcher’s gear as he makes a beeline for Dean, and he’s vaguely aware of the batter standing frozen a few steps away from home plate, holding the bat helplessly in his hand, insisting that  _ oh fuck he didn’t mean to do it  _ and _ oh god is he okay _ .

“ _ Dean _ ,” Cas breathes, skidding to a stop on the mound and dropping to his knees. “Dean, can you hear me?” He shakes Dean’s shoulder and pulls off his cap, which somehow managed to stay in place on his head despite the blow. He doesn’t see any blood, but he stays frozen in place as Dean’s head lolls to the side and the rest of his body remains motionless.

He can feel a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Chuck standing above him. “Let’s give him some space, Cas,” he says softly, shifting his grip so that he’s gently pulling on the strap of Cas’ chest protector. “He’ll be okay, just let the trainers get in, all right? He’ll be okay.”

Everyone around him is moving so slowly, it’s like they’re trudging through wet tar; nobody can get to Dean fast enough. When he drags himself to his feet and takes a few shaky steps toward his coach, his vacant spot at Dean’s side is filled immediately by trainers from both teams, one of whom is already on the phone with 911.

An eerie silence blankets the field, and Cas feels someone approach him from behind and drape an arm across his shoulders. Cas glances over and makes eye contact with Benny, who’s got no quips or sarcastic comments this time.

Cas doesn’t like it.

An ambulance siren wails in the distance, and Cas wants to throw up when he sees the paramedics hurry out onto the field. Garth squeezes his shoulder in an attempt at reassurance, but nothing is going to make Cas feel better until Dean opens his eyes again.

There’s a small ripple of chatter that grabs Cas’ attention, and his heart jumps up to his throat when he hears Chuck’s voice, full of relief.

“Dean, hey,” he says, and Cas stands on his toes to try and see above the cluster of people gathered around his friend. “No, no, it’s okay, you’re okay. We’re taking you to get checked out. You’re okay.”

Cas feels a hand clasp around his wrist, and he looks over to see Ash staring at him, pulling him forward. “C’mon, dude,” he says sharply. “He’s awake.” He pulls Cas back toward the circle of players and paramedics and forces him close, something Cas is grateful for, because he wouldn’t have been able to do it himself.

Over shoulders and between elbows, Cas manages to catch a few passing glimpses of Dean. He looks around, dazed, and his confused expression reminds Cas of one he’s seen babies do when they’re dumbstruck by the world around them. They’re seeing everything for the first time, and apparently Dean is, too. Dean blinks slowly, owlishly, and Cas doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he starts to feel lightheaded. Dean doesn’t do much else, just looks around curiously as the crowd gets to their feet, clapping. Cas laces his fingers together, tucking his hands behind his head, watching as the paramedics carefully load Dean up onto a stretcher.

Once Dean is off the field, Chuck trailing behind, Cas’ teammates try to shake off their nerves as they head back to their positions. There’s still a game to finish, after all, and Benny trots out to the mound, hesitantly taking Dean’s place. Cas  _ should _ get back behind the plate and finish the game, but he doesn’t, opting instead to let Garth take over. He’s better when it comes to handling Benny’s screwball, anyway.

As far as Cas is concerned, this game’s over.

* * *

 

Cas hates hospitals.

He hates them, but he hates not knowing what’s going on with Dean even more.

After spending the past hour and a half staring at the floor tiles in the waiting room, Cas decides that St. Vincent Hospital couldn’t have picked an uglier pattern for them.

He and Chuck are the only ones from the team in the waiting room, and while they wait, Cas finds himself mentally sketching out the life stories of everyone in the room with them to try and calm himself down.

It’s more of a coping mechanism than anything, something to do when he’s bored to keep his mind from wandering into negative, self-destructive thoughts, and he’s gotten pretty good at it over the years.

The woman sitting across from them with a sleeping child in her lap is waiting for news on her husband. He’s a firefighter, and is being treated for second- and third-degree burns and severe smoke inhalation from a job earlier in the day. They just got married a few weeks ago.

The old man sitting as close to the check-in desk as possible is waiting for his wife to get out of a routine surgery. 

The group of girls on the other side of the waiting room, sitting in a huddle under the TV, is waiting for news on their sorority sister, who tripped down some stairs while moving out of their house. 

He decides that everyone in the room gets a happy ending, and Cas hopes that he can eventually be included in that group, too.

Another doctor steps out into the waiting room, and Cas glances up for a second before looking back down. He’s spent hours getting his hopes up that each doctor who had come out was Dean’s, only to find out that he’s still being evaluated, still in surgery, still not okay.

“Chuck Shurley?” she asks, and both Cas and Chuck scramble to their feet immediately as she walks toward them. Cas looks her up and down quickly--she doesn’t look disheveled or upset, but she could just have years of practice of looking calm.

“Hannah Carroll, Dean’s doctor,” she says, extending her hand for them to shake. She has kind eyes; Cas likes her immediately.

“How is he?” Chuck asks, his voice hoarse. Cas closes his eyes, unsure if he’s prepared for Dean’s prognosis, and waits. When he opens his eyes again, the doctor is smiling, and his heart lurches in his chest.

“He’ll be fine,” she says, and Cas has to work hard to stop his knees from enveloping the doctor in a hug, bursting into tears, or both.

“Can we see him?” Cas asks faintly, relishing the relief that’s washing over him.  _ Dean’s okay, Dean’s okay, Dean’s okay. _

Dr. Carroll shakes her head. “Not yet. He suffered a concussion and a minor skull fracture, so we had to get him into surgery quickly. But he’s tough,” she says with a smile, “and he made it out just fine. I’ll have someone let you know when he’s been assigned to a room, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting on news any longer than you had to.”

“Thank you,” Chuck and Cas say in unison. Dr. Carroll turns away from them, and the second she does, Cas feels himself being pulled into a hug, his body pressed up against his coach’s wiry frame. Cas returns the hug and grins when he feels Chuck pat him on the back. When he pulls away, his coach’s eyes are glassy, a relieved smile spread across his face. 

“Wanna let the team know?” he asks softly, and Cas nods, pulling out his phone.

He’s never been more thrilled to send a text message in his life.

* * *

 

Dean is asleep when Cas and Chuck are finally able to go in and see him, and as much as Cas wishes he could hear his voice, the fact that Dean looks so peaceful and serene makes him feel better. A white bandage is wrapped around his head, and his blankets are pulled up to his chest, his arms resting at his sides with an IV in the back of his hand.

Cas can’t help but notice that it’s his pitching hand, and he winces in spite of himself. 

“Hey, Dean,” Chuck says, taking one of the seats at Dean’s bedside as Cas grabs the other. “Gave us quite the scare there,” he says. He tries to follow it up with a chuckle, but it sounds awkward and hollow, and Cas decides to pretend that it didn’t happen.

“The team is happy to hear you’re okay,” Cas says quickly, and Chuck’s face brightens at that--something to talk about.

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’ve they said?”

Cas pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s been vibrating nonstop against his leg with unread text messages, and he thumbs over to the team’s group chat. 

_ Can’t wait to have you back, Dean-o _

_ Glad ur alright, kid _

_ You’re alive! \o/ _

_ Don’t ever fucking scare us like that again, Winchester _

Chuck barks out a laugh at that last one before scrubbing a hand down his face. “That was from Lafitte, wasn’t it,” he says, and it’s more of a statement than a question.

“It was,” Cas says with a grin, scrolling through the rest of his texts. All the well wishes and positive thoughts make his eyes go glassy and a ball of warmth settle deep in his chest. Even though the well-wishes aren’t for him, these guys are still his teammates, his friends, and he knows that they’d be sending the same texts for anyone else on the team, too.

Shortly after Cas finishes reading the rest of the texts from his teammates, Chuck gets to his feet and stretches his arms high above his head. “Want anything down at the cafeteria?” he asks Cas. 

“No, thank you.” Cas gives his coach a small smile, then turns back to Dean. He doesn’t want to miss anything, even if “anything” is just an extra second or two of Dean’s chest rising and falling. Chuck must notice, because he squeezes Cas’ shoulder before leaving the room.

“He’s okay, Cas,” he says softly. “He’ll be okay.”

The door closes behind him with a click, and Cas’ eyes dart around the room. Dean doesn’t have a roommate, and the closed door affords for more privacy, but he can still feel the all-too-familiar acidic taste of anxiety creeping up his throat. He swallows it down and, before he can second-guess himself, reaches forward to grab Dean’s hand, entwining their fingers together.

Dean’s hands are rough and calloused, but Cas has never felt anything so comfortable. He rolls his lips into his mouth as he studies their hands linked together, and wonders how Dean would be reacting if he were awake. He gives Dean’s hand a gentle squeeze before retracting his own, burrowing it back into the pocket of his hoodie.

“I’m glad you’re all right, Dean.”

* * *

 

Dean’s hospital room is quiet after the initial celebration. Despite Cas saying he wasn’t hungry, Chuck had returned with a meal for him, which tasted surprisingly less like cardboard than Cas had been anticipating, and set up a temporary spot for himself in the waiting room, making calls and updating everyone on Dean’s status. 

Instead of sleeping like he knows he should be, Cas passes the time by staring out the window, chin resting on his arms, which are folded over each other on the windowsill. Three pigeons have been sitting on the electrical wires far below them for the past fifteen minutes, and Cas hasn’t noticed them move even the slightest bit. It’s also starting to get dark; cars are exiting the parking garage as the work day comes to an end, and for the first time, Cas’ exhaustion is catching up with him. 

He’s been on red alert for hours upon hours, and now that he knows Dean will be okay, his body is starting to crash. He imagines his bed, his dorm, how much he misses his pillow, his blankets. Maybe sleep  _ would  _ be a good idea. Maybe he should--

Cas’ thoughts are interrupted by a soft groan and a long, drawn-out, “ _ Fuuuuuuck _ .”

His spine straightens immediately and he can’t turn around fast enough. Dean’s eyes are half-shut, and it’s clear from his posture that he’s still a bit dazed and unsure of what to do next. He doesn’t notice Cas at first, his eyes instead latching onto the IV in his hand. They follow the tube up to the drip he’s hooked up to, and he finally starts looking around the room.

His eyes go bright when they lock with Cas’, and Cas can feel fireworks go off deep in his chest at the relief he sees in Dean’s face. 

“Dean,” he says softly, getting to his feet and making a beeline for Dean’s bedside. “I...how are you feeling?”

Dean flashes him a weak grin. “What hit me?” he asks, and Cas wants to smack him.

“That’s not funny,” he says sternly, nudging Dean’s upper arm with his elbow.

“You’re telling me,” Dean says with a wince. He adjusts himself gingerly, then gently presses two fingers to the bandage wrapped around his head. “Fuck.”

“What do you remember?”

“Enough.” Dean sighs, long and slow, before settling back against his pillow. He closes his eyes, but a second later they fly back open and he stares at Cas, panicked. “I, I’m--does Sam--”

“Chuck called him,” Cas says, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “He knows what happened, and he knows you’re okay. He wanted us to call him when you woke up.”

“Have you?”

“I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” Cas says, “getting you reacquainted to the world again, you know.”

Dean purses those lips that Cas has been infatuated with for the past few months into a pout, and he flips Cas off with a smirk, then holds out his hand.

Cas’ brows furrow together as his eyes flick from Dean’s hand, to his face, and back. “What?”

“Sammy doesn’t know I’m awake yet,” he says simply.

Dean’s phone is back at Wildwood along with the rest of his belongings, and Cas pulls his own phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and passes it over to Dean. Dean punches in a number and holds the phone in front of his face as it starts to ring. After a few seconds, Sam’s voice comes through the speaker.

“Casti-- _ Dean _ !” 

Dean grins at the phone and waves, which is when Cas realizes Dean chose FaceTime over a regular call. “Hey, Sammy.”

“Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

“What, this isn’t enough of an answer?” Dean asks, tapping gingerly again at the white bandage wrapped around his head.

“Fuck you,” Sam says, but Cas can hear the affection in his voice, and he smiles down at his hands resting in his lap. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that, you asshole.”

Dean brings his fingers to his chin in a contemplative gesture. “Funny, I remember  _ you _ scaring the fuck out of  _ me _ when you broke your arm in gym class.”

“That was my arm; this is your  _ head _ , Dean!”

Dean throws his head back to laugh--granted, not as quickly or as far as he normally would--and warmth floods Cas’ chest at another sign that Dean is slowly regaining his bearings. “Seriously, Sam,” he says, his voice and face sobering, “I’m okay. I’ll be fine.”

“His doctor said he would be able to leave tomorrow night, if all goes well,” Cas contributes, and Dean looks at him in surprise.

“Yeah?” he asks. Cas nods, and Dean grins. “See? Good as new. Now what do you say you let me rest, huh? You must have some homework to finish or something with all those goddamn AP classes.”

Sam smiles, and Cas watches as the younger Winchester runs a hand through his hair. “Call me when you’re out, okay?”

“Sure.”

“And tell Castiel thanks.”

Dean glances at Cas and raises his eyebrows-- _ you hear that _ ? “You’re welcome, Sam,” Cas says, mirroring Sam’s smile. 

Sam pauses, almost hesitating, but quickly says, “Love you, Dean.”

“You, too, Sammy.”

And with one last wave, Dean disconnects the call. He leans back against his pillows again, suddenly looking more drained than he had before. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, then gives Cas a weak half-smile. “No more sliders,” he mumbles, and for the first time in what seems like ages, Cas laughs.

“No,” he says, shaking his head definitively. “No more sliders.”

* * *

 

“I don't understand how Turner expects us to do all of this,” Cas says, twirling his pen in one hand and resting his chin in the other as he stares down at his textbook. 

“What, you mean you biochem majors aren’t miracle workers?” Dean asks slyly, smirking at Cas.

“As much as he might think so, no, we’re not.”

It’s been three weeks since Dean got back from the hospital, and Cas has barely left his side. They’re both on campus for the summer--Dean to volunteer for Wildwood’s several baseball camps and clinics for younger kids, Cas to catch up on classes so he’ll be able to graduate on time--and Cas can’t say he minds the fact that he and Dean have been more or less attached at the hip ever since classes ended.

Dean’s recovery had gone smoothly in the physical sense, but despite trying to hide his feelings or push through them, he’s still skittish and anxious on the field, especially around the mound. It had been Cas’ idea for him to ease back into things by helping younger kids learn the basics of the game he loves so much; at first, Dean hadn’t taken kindly to what he considered to be a watered-down solution to his anxieties, but soon enough, Cas would find him planning batting and pitching drills for the kids in his spare time, would watch him gently adjust the kids’ grips on their bats, teach them how to drop into fielding position for grounders, all while offering encouragement and cheers for every single camper. 

He draws little caricatures of the kids as gifts for whenever they accomplish a new skill or perfect something they’d been having trouble with. Slowly but surely, and even though he’d taken an offbeat path to get there, Cas could see Dean’s comfort on the diamond returning.

Today, he’s working on sketches for Ben, who’d just learned how to bunt, and Krissy, a feisty little girl who’d perfected the art of using two hands to catch a grounder at third base. They’re still in the early stages--Dean sketches, inks, and colors each drawing--but Cas can already tell that they’ll be just as loved as the ones Dean has already completed and given to their owners.

To put it mildly, despite his complete lack of artistic ability, Cas still wishes he could be sketching with Dean instead of muddling through the stacks of homework Professor Turner had given his class.

“On top of all the readings he assigned last cl--”

Cas cuts himself off and freezes when he feels something brush up against his cheek. It's so quick, he almost doesn't register it right away, but when he looks up and sees Dean staring down at his sketchbook, his cheeks a deep red, he knows exactly what happened.

Dean just fucking kissed him.

Cas gingerly touches the spot Dean’s lips were just on, his cheeks going hot as he realizes that he's basically put himself in the middle of a trailer for a goddamn romantic comedy.

“Dean…” he says hesitantly.

Dean glances at him for a split second before craning his neck back and staring up at the sky. “That was stupid,” he says. “I'm sorry, Cas. I don't know what I was thinkin’, I just, it felt--” He chuckles awkwardly before rapping his knuckles against the side of his head. “Still a little fucked up in here, I guess.” He waves his hand, still not looking at Cas. “It was outta line. We can just--”

Cas kisses his cheek

Dean looks at him, his eyes wide, face a mixture of shock and excitement. “Yeah?” he asks, flashing Cas a lopsided grin.

Cas nods. “Yes.”

When Dean leans over and rests a hand on Cas’ cheek, his thumb resting along his jawline, Cas can feel his stomach start to tense up. He wants to close his eyes, but he also just wants to stare into Dean’s, which are closer, clearer, brighter,  _ greener _ than he's ever seen them before. And what if he closes his eyes and they're gone? And he never sees them this close up, this happy again?

When Dean leans in and presses his lips against Cas’, Cas is convinced that he won’t have to worry about anything like that. 

Dean’s lips are soft and warm and make Cas self-conscious about how chapped his own must be, but if Dean’s gently prodding tongue is any indication, he doesn’t seem to mind. Dean’s teeth latch onto Cas’ bottom lip and Cas’ breath catches in his throat. That makes Dean smile; Cas can tell by the way he can feel Dean’s lips curve up against his own, and he smiles back, resting his hand on Dean’s knee and reveling in the warmth of Dean’s hand on his cheek. His shoulders slump and the muscles in his neck relax, and Cas realizes that, for the first time in what seems like forever, he’s  _ comfortable _ . He’s not second-guessing himself like he had during his first kiss, constantly comparing himself to Ezekiel’s exes and wondering if his breath smelled and what he should do with his hands. He’s still wondering those things, but with Dean, he finds himself not caring about the answers, because it’s clear that Dean doesn’t care, so he shouldn’t, either.

Cas just fits with Dean, and for once, he doesn’t want to dig any deeper than that.

They kiss for a few more moments, their bodies coming closer and closer together until Dean drops his head suddenly, smiling down at the grass. Cas takes the opportunity to press one more kiss to Dean’s forehead.

“This,” he says, reaching out his hand and gently lifting Dean’s chin up to look at him, “is okay.”

* * *

 

Dean’s leg is bouncing up and down restlessly, his cleats clacking against the cement floor of the dugout. Cas still considers it one of his favorite sounds, but the fact that he’s hearing it now because Dean is nervous makes him want to reconsider. Cas knows Dean wouldn’t want anyone to catch onto his nerves, so he tries to be as discreet as possible when he intertwines his fingers with Dean’s. Dean doesn’t look at him, but he squeezes his hand quickly, letting Cas know that he got the message.

“Welcome to the first day of fall ball, gents.” Chuck claps his hands together before spreading them wide, grinning at everyone in the dugout. “Good summers? Yes?”

There’s a murmuring of assent that quickly dissolves into everyone catching up with each other all over again, and Chuck starts clapping again to get his players’ attention back on him. “Okay, okay, discuss it after the game. 

“Now, as I’m sure you all know, these scrimmages are just that--they’re a way for you to practice, stretch out any muscles that might’ve had too much of a break over the summer, get back into your grooves before the spring. But it’d still be appreciated if you, oh, I don’t know, tried, okay?”

“Yeah, Winchester,” Benny says, nudging Dean with his elbow, “try a little harder to get back on your feet, huh, brother?”

Their teammates laugh as Dean flips Benny off, and Cas can feel all eyes on him and Dean. This will be his first start since the playoffs last spring, and Dean isn’t the only one who’s tense. Cas runs his thumb gently across Dean’s knuckles.

“Like I said,” Chuck continues, as if he hadn’t noticed the few seconds of silence after Benny’s comment, “use this to warm up for the season, not as a place to play out your World Series fantasies, got it?” 

Ash gets to his feet and salutes Chuck. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Laughter echoes throughout the dugout, and the starters grab their gloves and jog out onto the field. Dean hangs back for a few extra seconds, and Cas brings Dean’s hand discreetly to his lips, pressing a quick kiss against his knuckles.

Dean gives him a small, grateful grin. “Ready?” he asks.

Cas nods. “When you are.”

Dean nods and gets to his feet, tucking his glove under his arm so he can adjust his cap. “Well, we’ll see how it goes.”

 

Once the batter has taken his stance in the box, Cas sizes him up, trying to decide on the appropriate pitch while simultaneously trying not to get distracted by the intensity in Dean’s eyes 60 feet away.

Dean’s staring down the plate at Cas, one hand behind his back fingering the strings of the ball. The brim of his cap is shading his eyes, and for a split second Cas is taken aback by how serious Dean looks, and is reminded once more of how much he wants to prove to everyone--himself included--that he can do this. 

Cas gives the sign for a changeup, and for a few seconds, Dean does nothing; he just keeps staring. Maybe he’s rusty, is having trouble remembering which signs coincide with which pitches. Cas gives the sign again, and Dean still doesn’t react. He stays frozen in place until he abruptly straightens up and turns his back to Cas, his glove over his mouth and nose.

“Time, please,” Cas says to the ump, and gets out of his crouch and heads to the mound without waiting for a response. His gut is churning as he approaches Dean, wondering what the hell he’ll say to comfort him and calm him down, if anything he can say can even  _ do  _ that. 

Dean must hear him approaching, because just as Cas reaches out a hand toward his shoulder, he whirls around, glove still over his mouth, eyes downcast. “I can’t do this, Cas,” he mutters quickly, and when he finally does look up, Cas’ heart drops at the fear in his eyes. 

“Dean--”

“I can’t, call Chuck, get someone--” Dean cuts himself off, glancing frantically up and over toward the dugout, eyes searching for their coach. “I can’t, this is, no…” He’s talking faster and faster, his words stumbling over each other as they leave his mouth, and takes a deep breath, grabbing Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean, look at me.”

When he’s got Dean’s eyes on him, Cas starts breathing slowly, exaggeratedly, hoping Dean will start mirroring him. “It’s okay to be scared,” he says. “You have every right to be. Ask anyone.” Dean closes his eyes, and Cas can tell he’s about to start protesting again, so he continues. “But you can do this. I know you can, everyone knows you can, and I think that includes you, too.” 

Cas reaches out and wraps his fingers around the wrist of Dean’s gloved hand, gently pulling it away from Dean’s face. “One pitch at a time,” he says, and Dean stares at him. After a few seconds of silence, Dean nods stiffly and starts toeing at the dirt on the mound.

“Okay.”

“You can do this.”

Dean looks like he’s still trying to convince himself of that, and Cas wishes he could take as much time as his boyfriend needs to calm down, but the ump is approaching them with a sharp, “Any time, now, catch.”

The batter taps his bat against his cleats, shooting Cas an impatient look before stepping back into the box. Cas crouches back down and flexes the fingers of his free hand before positioning his glove in front of his chest and giving Dean the same sign as before.

Dean works quickly this time, effectively ripping off the Band-Aid. He brings the ball into his glove, glances around once more, winds up, and throws.

It’s good; Cas can tell the second it leaves Dean’s hand. The batter knows this, too, and Cas senses him rearing back, preparing to swing. Cas wills the ball to land in his mitt, for the batter to swing and miss, but neither of those things happen, and Cas springs to his feet the second the ball cracks against the bat.

Dean’s eyes widen as the ball shoots back toward him, and Cas’ breath catches in his throat. He watches as Dean holds out his glove in an attempt to grab it--or at least look like he’s trying--misses, and lets it bounce behind him toward Victor at second base, who scoops it up and throws it over to Andy at first.

And just like that, there’s one out, and everybody’s still conscious. Easy.

Dean smacks his hand against his glove in approval as Andy tosses the ball back to him. The relief on Dean’s face is palpable as heads back to the mound and flashes Cas a quick smirk before mouthing a quick phrase to him.

Cas can’t tell if Dean’s words are  _ thank you  _ or  _ love you _ , and although he’d really, really prefer the latter, he figures he can take Dean out after the game and get clarification on it--as well as maybe a kiss or seven--after the game. 

He smiles back at Dean before holding up one finger, yelling, “One down!” and crouching back into position.

On to the next one. 

**Author's Note:**

> Summary outtakes that were deleted for being Too Cheesy:  
> 1\. Strike one: Cas transfers to Wildwood University after a mental breakdown at his old college, and joins the baseball team. Strike two: he meets Dean Winchester, ridiculously attractive pitcher for Wildwood, and becomes his catcher. What happens next is up to Cas; after all, it's 1, 2, 3 strikes you're out at the old ball game.
> 
> 2\. After a rough freshman year of college, Cas transfers to Wildwood University, hoping for a fresh start, both academically and athletically when he’s recruited for the baseball team. The last thing he expects is to fall hard for Wildwood pitcher Dean Winchester, but after their first meeting Cas isn't ready to strike out.
> 
> 3\. Cas is ready to catch what Dean's pitching
> 
> 4\. Cas is sure that this game isn't one he's going to sit out
> 
> 5\. Cas couldn't have guessed it in a million years, but he was almost positive falling for Dean was a home run


End file.
